A Literary Magazine - St. Xavier High School

 contents
Letter from the Editor
Gatsby. Since the 2013 adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s
famous novel The Great Gatsby, the Art Deco stylizations of the
early 20th century has been popularized and brought forth once
again to the public light. The Deco stylizations of wealth and
commercialism embody the rebellious spirit of a restless people,
the apparent disillusionment of the Lost Generation with the
then-status quo. Today, we now suffer similar disillusionments,
and the role of written language in society is changing rapidly. The
2014 eXpressions seeks to embody the restless spirits of a modern people; the emotive voice of a generation. In this publication,
we’ll explore the obvious and the abstract, new and old, joy and
sorrow, as both entertainment and as an exploration of our own
humanity. So, without further ado, the 2014 edition of St. Xavier
High School’s eXpressions Literary Magazine.
senior editor
keegan doyle ‘14
Keegan Doyle will be attending the Ohio State University next
year, as a Chemical Engineering major, with minors in Theatre and
Philosophy. He sends his personal thanks to his 2nd Grade English teacher, Mrs. Crowley for making him interested in writing.
art editor colin shimrock ‘15
Colin Shimrock is a junior who plans on pursuing photography and
musical theatre in college.
moderator
mr. timothy reisert
Mr. Timothy Reisert has served as the moderator of St. Xavier’s
Expressions for six years.
A Dedication
Mr. John Hussong has built Expressions. He is the man behind
this tradition. And we seek to continue his tradition in every issue
forward.
artwork
Ryan Smithcover
Graham Haehnle
4, 23, 26, 39, 46, 64
Andrew Frank 14
Colin Shimrock19
Ben Weibel32, 55
Alexander Adrian78
writing
Carl Lewandowski
Hunger1
Brad OsunaLove Walks In10
Ian Jones
Portrait of Jungleland
18
Justin Hobing
Before the Fall
20
Nathan Haberthy
Devil’s Advocate
21
Patrick McFadden
Your Love24
Will Hoffer
All Things Must Die
25
Nathan Haberthy
An Embroidered Pain
27
Brad OsunaSeparate Checks28
Barry HerbersCuri31
Jake Winans
One Lost Message
33
Will HofferAutumn’s Harbinger38
Michael Richart
Ode to a Glass Eye
40
Jacob Miller
Rowing to the Start
42
Andrew Koury
Purposes of a Pencil
43
Benjamin Borja
The New Americans
47
Dane Morey
The Cost of Fame
48
Victor Schneider
Christian’s God
58
Keegan Doyle
excerpt from Brahman: An Odyssey
62
Justin HobingThe Fall63
Collin ScottGraphite67
Patrick McFadden
Lost69
Nathan Haberthy
Treasures of Alexandria
71
Max Stepaniak
If It’s So Mighty
73
John D’Allessandro Changed, Not Lost
75
Josh Carrero
There We Stood
76
Mr. John Hussong
Sonnet at 73, A Gentle Parody
77
contents
Letter from the Editor
Gatsby. Since the 2013 adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s
famous novel The Great Gatsby, the Art Deco stylizations of the
early 20th century has been popularized and brought forth once
again to the public light. The Deco stylizations of wealth and
commercialism embody the rebellious spirit of a restless people,
the apparent disillusionment of the Lost Generation with the
then-status quo. Today, we now suffer similar disillusionments,
and the role of written language in society is changing rapidly. The
2014 eXpressions seeks to embody the restless spirits of a modern people; the emotive voice of a generation. In this publication,
we’ll explore the obvious and the abstract, new and old, joy and
sorrow, as both entertainment and as an exploration of our own
humanity. So, without further ado, the 2014 edition of St. Xavier
High School’s eXpressions Literary Magazine.
senior editor
keegan doyle ‘14
Keegan Doyle will be attending the Ohio State University next
year, as a Chemical Engineering major, with minors in Theatre and
Philosophy. He sends his personal thanks to his 2nd Grade English teacher, Mrs. Crowley for making him interested in writing.
art editor colin shimrock ‘15
Colin Shimrock is a junior who plans on pursuing photography and
musical theatre in college.
moderator
mr. timothy reisert
Mr. Timothy Reisert has served as the moderator of St. Xavier’s
Expressions for six years.
A Dedication
Mr. John Hussong has built Expressions. He is the man behind
this tradition. And we seek to continue his tradition in every issue
forward.
artwork
Ryan Smithcover
Graham Haehnle
4, 23, 26, 39, 46, 64
Andrew Frank 14
Colin Shimrock19
Ben Weibel32, 55
Alexander Adrian78
writing
Carl Lewandowski
Hunger1
Brad OsunaLove Walks In10
Ian Jones
Portrait of Jungleland
18
Justin Hobing
Before the Fall
20
Nathan Haberthy
Devil’s Advocate
21
Patrick McFadden
Your Love24
Will Hoffer
All Things Must Die
25
Nathan Haberthy
An Embroidered Pain
27
Brad OsunaSeparate Checks28
Barry HerbersCuri31
Jake Winans
One Lost Message
33
Will HofferAutumn’s Harbinger38
Michael Richart
Ode to a Glass Eye
40
Jacob Miller
Rowing to the Start
42
Andrew Koury
Purposes of a Pencil
43
Benjamin Borja
The New Americans
47
Dane Morey
The Cost of Fame
48
Victor Schneider
Christian’s God
58
Keegan Doyle
excerpt from Brahman: An Odyssey
62
Justin HobingThe Fall63
Collin ScottGraphite67
Patrick McFadden
Lost69
Nathan Haberthy
Treasures of Alexandria
71
Max Stepaniak
If It’s So Mighty
73
John D’Allessandro Changed, Not Lost
75
Josh Carrero
There We Stood
76
Mr. John Hussong
Sonnet at 73, A Gentle Parody
77
Ca r l L ew a n d ow s k i
Carl Lewando wski
Hunger
The Robertson family hadn’t seen a potato in almost a year.
“It’s this damn blight,” James Robertson said. “They’re all either black an’
dead or green an’ poisonous.”
James Robertson was a simple man. He owned a small two-story shack, a
plot of land which had once yielded potatoes, and a gnarled old apple tree, all
of which had been in the family for generations.
“I was gettin’ sick a potatoes anyway,” he proclaimed rather cheerlessly as
he spooned thin cabbage water into his bowl for the third meal that day. He’d
managed to buy a sickly cabbage from the O’Connors, and he intended to milk
it for all it was worth. “The variety’s nice.”
“I could go for a potato righ’ now,” his wife sighed. She took a taste of the
broth, and added, “Or a speck a salt.”
“Aw, it ain’ so bad, Ma,” little Billy Robertson said. “It’s better than nothin’.”
“Y’know, Mary, y’could stand ta take a lesson or two from our William here.
Ne’er a complaint outa his mouth!”
“Sorry, sweet.”
After a gulp of broth, Billy Robertson decided he agreed with his mother,
but said nothing.
“One a these days, I’ll see if I can’t find somethin’ to sell, an’ I’ll take it
ta market. An’ I’ll get a nice bit a money, an’ I’ll see if the Madison’s ain’ got
any wheat, an’ then I can make us some gruel, maybe e’en bread. We’ll have a
feas’ that night.”
Mary Robertson put down her spoon for a moment and savored the taste
of the thought. She took another sip of soup.
“An’ I heard jus’ earlier that the Arnold’s sow’s knocked up again. An’ with
times like it is, he can’t afford to keep all the piglets. An’ I know we couldn’t
afford to keep one either, but I could buy one an’ jus’ kill it right off, and we
could all have a thick slice a’ pork for dinner.”
At this Mary Robertson threw down her spoon.
“Now you know full well that pig’s been too ol’ for years! Don’ you go
puttin’ these nice thoughts into our heads when you know there ain’ no way
they’ll be true!”
“Alrigh’, alrigh’. It’s no good to taunt ya like that. But jus’ listen for a
minute.”
“James, I ain’ havin’ no more a your stories!”
James Robertson carried on anyway.
“That ugly ol’ apple tree’s been sittin’ out there how long? An’ I ain’ ne’er
seen it get an apple. An’ I always think to myself, wouldn’t it be so nice if it’d
give us some fruit? We wouldn’t go hungry no more. Well, look at this.”
He pulled a tattered white rag, little more than a grid of threads in places,
from somewhere inside his jacket. He scooted the pot of cabbage water over
and unfurled the rag with a flourish. Out tumbled three fallow apples, small
and misshapen.
“Found these this morning. Didn’t see no blossoms or green apples before,
though. Don’ know where they came from. I saw ‘em an’ I thought, we can have
us some desert. Hell, this is like a whole ‘nother meal.”
Billy Robertson had already snatched one up, and was polishing its grimy
1
surface on his shirt.
“Now, I didn’ check for worms or nothing, so be careful.”
Mary Robertson had already sunk her twisted yellow teeth into one.
James Robertson took his too. They were all mealy and bitter, but it had been
so long that they’d forgotten what an apple was supposed to taste like, and they
were sweeter than pie.
“Y’know, the way our luck’s going, we might just get a tater soon.”
His wife shot him a glare, and he stopped.
Only Mary Robertson found a worm in her apple, a writhing long green
thing. She slurped it down live and squirming, without chewing.
“For the protein,” she explained.
Soon the apples were gone, cores and stems and worm and all.
Deep in the night, Mary Robertson awoke to the sound of retching, and
realized with horror that the sound was hers. She stood by the window like a
specter, silhouetted in her white nightgown, with every lock of her thin grey
hair curled around her head like tentacles.
She doubled over and threw open the shutters. Something in her stomach
lurched; something in her neck seized up. Something made its way the wrong
way out of her digestive tract.
Bile at first, green and speckled with chunks of apple. She continued to
heave, and it grew thick and dark. When she was done coughing up blood, she
felt better, and slumped over asleep right there, with her whole upper half
leaning out the window.
James Robertson realized as soon as his eyes opened in the morning that
something was very wrong. He rushed over to the windowsill and picked his
wife up from where she lay.
“Mary, wake up. You’ll catch your death like that.”
He cradled her bony shoulders in his arms and dragged her to the bed. To his
surprise, she wasn’t cold at all, and was waking up.
“I threw up last night, sweet. I ain’ done that in a long time.”
“It was all that food last night. Your stomach ain’ used to it. Just need a bit
a rest is all.”
He piled up the blankets around her with his meaty hands.
“Wha’ I wouldn’t give,” he muttered as he pulled on his coat, “for a proper
meal.” He got to tending the remaining plants in his field right away. There were
mottledsplotches the color of the worm in Mary’s apple all over the potato’s
leaves. He used his stocky fingers to lift one wilting plant up, but it flopped over
again as soon as he moved. Jeremiah Knox next door had walked over and leaned
on the apple tree.
“No luck?”
James Robertson turned around and began absentmindedly scuffing the earth
from beneath his finger nails.
“You know it. Not since this damn blight showed up. An’ the weather sure as
hell ain’ helpin’ either.”
Both men looked up at the grey sky. The sun hadn’t shown for months, and
the clouds hadn’t offered any rain since they’d appeared.
 ”Strangest damn thing,” the dairy farmer said. “Never seen anything like it.
2
Ca r l L ew a n d ow s k i
Carl Lewando wski
Hunger
The Robertson family hadn’t seen a potato in almost a year.
“It’s this damn blight,” James Robertson said. “They’re all either black an’
dead or green an’ poisonous.”
James Robertson was a simple man. He owned a small two-story shack, a
plot of land which had once yielded potatoes, and a gnarled old apple tree, all
of which had been in the family for generations.
“I was gettin’ sick a potatoes anyway,” he proclaimed rather cheerlessly as
he spooned thin cabbage water into his bowl for the third meal that day. He’d
managed to buy a sickly cabbage from the O’Connors, and he intended to milk
it for all it was worth. “The variety’s nice.”
“I could go for a potato righ’ now,” his wife sighed. She took a taste of the
broth, and added, “Or a speck a salt.”
“Aw, it ain’ so bad, Ma,” little Billy Robertson said. “It’s better than nothin’.”
“Y’know, Mary, y’could stand ta take a lesson or two from our William here.
Ne’er a complaint outa his mouth!”
“Sorry, sweet.”
After a gulp of broth, Billy Robertson decided he agreed with his mother,
but said nothing.
“One a these days, I’ll see if I can’t find somethin’ to sell, an’ I’ll take it
ta market. An’ I’ll get a nice bit a money, an’ I’ll see if the Madison’s ain’ got
any wheat, an’ then I can make us some gruel, maybe e’en bread. We’ll have a
feas’ that night.”
Mary Robertson put down her spoon for a moment and savored the taste
of the thought. She took another sip of soup.
“An’ I heard jus’ earlier that the Arnold’s sow’s knocked up again. An’ with
times like it is, he can’t afford to keep all the piglets. An’ I know we couldn’t
afford to keep one either, but I could buy one an’ jus’ kill it right off, and we
could all have a thick slice a’ pork for dinner.”
At this Mary Robertson threw down her spoon.
“Now you know full well that pig’s been too ol’ for years! Don’ you go
puttin’ these nice thoughts into our heads when you know there ain’ no way
they’ll be true!”
“Alrigh’, alrigh’. It’s no good to taunt ya like that. But jus’ listen for a
minute.”
“James, I ain’ havin’ no more a your stories!”
James Robertson carried on anyway.
“That ugly ol’ apple tree’s been sittin’ out there how long? An’ I ain’ ne’er
seen it get an apple. An’ I always think to myself, wouldn’t it be so nice if it’d
give us some fruit? We wouldn’t go hungry no more. Well, look at this.”
He pulled a tattered white rag, little more than a grid of threads in places,
from somewhere inside his jacket. He scooted the pot of cabbage water over
and unfurled the rag with a flourish. Out tumbled three fallow apples, small
and misshapen.
“Found these this morning. Didn’t see no blossoms or green apples before,
though. Don’ know where they came from. I saw ‘em an’ I thought, we can have
us some desert. Hell, this is like a whole ‘nother meal.”
Billy Robertson had already snatched one up, and was polishing its grimy
1
surface on his shirt.
“Now, I didn’ check for worms or nothing, so be careful.”
Mary Robertson had already sunk her twisted yellow teeth into one.
James Robertson took his too. They were all mealy and bitter, but it had been
so long that they’d forgotten what an apple was supposed to taste like, and they
were sweeter than pie.
“Y’know, the way our luck’s going, we might just get a tater soon.”
His wife shot him a glare, and he stopped.
Only Mary Robertson found a worm in her apple, a writhing long green
thing. She slurped it down live and squirming, without chewing.
“For the protein,” she explained.
Soon the apples were gone, cores and stems and worm and all.
Deep in the night, Mary Robertson awoke to the sound of retching, and
realized with horror that the sound was hers. She stood by the window like a
specter, silhouetted in her white nightgown, with every lock of her thin grey
hair curled around her head like tentacles.
She doubled over and threw open the shutters. Something in her stomach
lurched; something in her neck seized up. Something made its way the wrong
way out of her digestive tract.
Bile at first, green and speckled with chunks of apple. She continued to
heave, and it grew thick and dark. When she was done coughing up blood, she
felt better, and slumped over asleep right there, with her whole upper half
leaning out the window.
James Robertson realized as soon as his eyes opened in the morning that
something was very wrong. He rushed over to the windowsill and picked his
wife up from where she lay.
“Mary, wake up. You’ll catch your death like that.”
He cradled her bony shoulders in his arms and dragged her to the bed. To his
surprise, she wasn’t cold at all, and was waking up.
“I threw up last night, sweet. I ain’ done that in a long time.”
“It was all that food last night. Your stomach ain’ used to it. Just need a bit
a rest is all.”
He piled up the blankets around her with his meaty hands.
“Wha’ I wouldn’t give,” he muttered as he pulled on his coat, “for a proper
meal.” He got to tending the remaining plants in his field right away. There were
mottledsplotches the color of the worm in Mary’s apple all over the potato’s
leaves. He used his stocky fingers to lift one wilting plant up, but it flopped over
again as soon as he moved. Jeremiah Knox next door had walked over and leaned
on the apple tree.
“No luck?”
James Robertson turned around and began absentmindedly scuffing the earth
from beneath his finger nails.
“You know it. Not since this damn blight showed up. An’ the weather sure as
hell ain’ helpin’ either.”
Both men looked up at the grey sky. The sun hadn’t shown for months, and
the clouds hadn’t offered any rain since they’d appeared.
 ”Strangest damn thing,” the dairy farmer said. “Never seen anything like it.
2
Ca rl L ew a n d ow s k i
graham Ha ehnle
Had to kill off half my cows, ‘cause there warn’t no grass to feed ‘em. Warn’t
much meat on ‘em neither.”
“Blight’s funny too. These same spots got all over the Madison’s wheat,
and the McCrimmon’s pumpkins. We haven’t got a proper bite to eat since...
since...”
“These clouds rolled in about February. When Bobby got killed,” Jeremiah
Knox said darkly, his voice suddenly quiet. The whole town was very familiar
with what happened to Bobby Knox. Or at least the details his father had decided
to release.
Mary Robertson shivered, though she wasn’t cold, as she listened to the
conversation floating in through the window. She moved her skeletal hand to rub
her stomach, and found nothing.
This startled her. She moved her hand around the patch of skin, which felt
much emptier than usual. No organs, no stomach, no intestines begging for
food. Just a few inches of wrinkled skin wrapped around her spine. She reached
her fingers into her ribcage. She found no lungs. Wasn’t there supposed to be a
heart somewhere? She reached up into the ribcage further, and found nothing
but skin. Where was her windpipe? She swallowed, and felt scratching at the
back of her throat. How could she still have a throat, if there was nothing in her
neck? She curled into a ball, and sat there, skin and bone.
The words grew closer and closer, until they were right beneath the window.
“What’s this here?” the milkman said. She could tell he was standing where
she’d vomited.
“I dunno. Never seen it before. ‘What’s this not here’ is a better question.”
Jeremiah Knox placed his hands on his hips and frowned.
“It’s like the ground’s just plain gone away. Just a hole in the earth.”
Her husband fumbled for a stone, and dropped it. Mary Robertson covered
her ears with a pillow thinner than cabbage water, as she didn’t care to hear the
sound she knew it wouldn’t make.
“What’s happening to me?” she whispered weakly. She explored her empty
abdomen again. This time she found a tight little knot of something clinging to
her spine. She clutched it tightly, and it was precious to her.
Something seized control of her voice, and her tongue whispered, “I hunger.”
A sharp pain filled the knot by her spine, and she knew she had no choice but to
obey. She stood up to pull on a dress, and chose a pink, silky one, with jewels
on the collar. It had been a gift, years ago. James Robertson refused to let her
sell it. It was the nicest thing any of them owned; something told her she had to
look presentable today.
The corset on her dress was merciful to her, and gave the illusion of volume
to her hollow torso. She hobbled downstairs to the kitchen, and threw open
all the empty cupboards. She wiped them down with her hands and sucked her
fingers for any particles of crumb or grease they may have accumulated. She
stumbled upon a lump of clay in the back corner of one, and devoured it like a
candy.
“I hunger...” the voice that was not hers hissed. She tore off a bit of dead
skin on the end of one of her leathery fingers, and nibbled on it ravenously. “I
hunger...”
3
4
Ca rl L ew a n d ow s k i
graham Ha ehnle
Had to kill off half my cows, ‘cause there warn’t no grass to feed ‘em. Warn’t
much meat on ‘em neither.”
“Blight’s funny too. These same spots got all over the Madison’s wheat,
and the McCrimmon’s pumpkins. We haven’t got a proper bite to eat since...
since...”
“These clouds rolled in about February. When Bobby got killed,” Jeremiah
Knox said darkly, his voice suddenly quiet. The whole town was very familiar
with what happened to Bobby Knox. Or at least the details his father had decided
to release.
Mary Robertson shivered, though she wasn’t cold, as she listened to the
conversation floating in through the window. She moved her skeletal hand to rub
her stomach, and found nothing.
This startled her. She moved her hand around the patch of skin, which felt
much emptier than usual. No organs, no stomach, no intestines begging for
food. Just a few inches of wrinkled skin wrapped around her spine. She reached
her fingers into her ribcage. She found no lungs. Wasn’t there supposed to be a
heart somewhere? She reached up into the ribcage further, and found nothing
but skin. Where was her windpipe? She swallowed, and felt scratching at the
back of her throat. How could she still have a throat, if there was nothing in her
neck? She curled into a ball, and sat there, skin and bone.
The words grew closer and closer, until they were right beneath the window.
“What’s this here?” the milkman said. She could tell he was standing where
she’d vomited.
“I dunno. Never seen it before. ‘What’s this not here’ is a better question.”
Jeremiah Knox placed his hands on his hips and frowned.
“It’s like the ground’s just plain gone away. Just a hole in the earth.”
Her husband fumbled for a stone, and dropped it. Mary Robertson covered
her ears with a pillow thinner than cabbage water, as she didn’t care to hear the
sound she knew it wouldn’t make.
“What’s happening to me?” she whispered weakly. She explored her empty
abdomen again. This time she found a tight little knot of something clinging to
her spine. She clutched it tightly, and it was precious to her.
Something seized control of her voice, and her tongue whispered, “I hunger.”
A sharp pain filled the knot by her spine, and she knew she had no choice but to
obey. She stood up to pull on a dress, and chose a pink, silky one, with jewels
on the collar. It had been a gift, years ago. James Robertson refused to let her
sell it. It was the nicest thing any of them owned; something told her she had to
look presentable today.
The corset on her dress was merciful to her, and gave the illusion of volume
to her hollow torso. She hobbled downstairs to the kitchen, and threw open
all the empty cupboards. She wiped them down with her hands and sucked her
fingers for any particles of crumb or grease they may have accumulated. She
stumbled upon a lump of clay in the back corner of one, and devoured it like a
candy.
“I hunger...” the voice that was not hers hissed. She tore off a bit of dead
skin on the end of one of her leathery fingers, and nibbled on it ravenously. “I
hunger...”
3
4
Carl L ew a n d o w s k i
Carl Lewando wski
James Robertson elected to cover the newly formed abyss in the yard with
his coat, even though it was chilly out.
“Thing gives me the creeps.”
But Jeremiah Knox remained silent. He was thinking of an unreleased detail
in the death of his son.
“Come on,” he said, wanting to get away from the painful reminder. “I was
wonderin’ if’n you could you could come help me cut up ‘ol Bess. Had to kill
‘er yesterday. I’d give ya a steak or two.”
“Well, I ain’ one to pass up food, ‘specially in time’s like this. I’ll see if
William ain’ up yet, he might wanna help too.” He leaned into the first floor
window. “Mary! Wake up William, won’t ya?”
“I hunger!”
“Don’t we all, sweet. Don’t we all.”
Mary Robertson had no control over her mouth and her words. She limped
up the stairs, chewing on more than just her fingernails. With every speck she
ingested, the knot in her gut wriggled and seemed to grow.
“William!” she choked out in a rare moment of control. “Go help your... I
hunger... father!”
The milk cow’s carcass had a thin patina of meat on its bones, but little
more than that.
“She was a good cow,” Jeremiah said, a little maudlin. “She was Bobby’s
favorite. Good milk, too. Thick and frothy.”
“How’re you gonna keep the meat?”
“Well, I’ll ice what I can, but it’ll spoil sooner or later. I guess I’ll take most
of it to market. People need the food.”
Mary Robertson was really struggling now. There was something pushing
its way up the throat she knew she didn’t have, and her legs weren’t working
on her side anymore. They had grown sturdy again, and she stood taller than
she had in years. The thing filling her chest cavity seized one leg, and then the
other, and the old Robertson woman walked like a duchess out the door, with
head and chest held high.
She strode through the blighted potatoes, and past the gnarled apple tree.
She ascended the sweeping hill behind them, and looked up to the grey sky. The
grey sky recognized her, or the thing inside of her, and looked back, as though
afraid. Mary Robertson ran through the moors and hills, dragging her pink
dress through the mud.
Finally, she came to a place where the bush stopped, and the animals were
quiet, and the earth threw light up to the sky, instead of the other way round. It
was a perfect circle, lined on all sides by fungus, and larger than the Robertson
house. At the outside edge, the earth was hard and dry with drought, but as
her legs moved her, the ground transitioned smoothly into a viscous mud. She
was up to her ankles, and the ground was just about to become too watery to
stand in without sinking, when she stopped for a moment in reverence, before
continuing in.
The center of the circle was a perfectly clear pool, like a looking glass. It
was stagnant and pristine, entirely still. Mary Robertson looked at her face in
the pool. The haggard lines on her face were not as steep as she remembered
5
them, and there was a youth in her eyes she was certain she did not possess.
“I hunger...” said the thing holding her tongue, louder this time.
Triumphant. “I HUNGER!”

The knot inside of her had filled all the space left by the organs it had
evicted, and was still growing. She could feel it spilling into her arms and
legs, and pressing against the confines of the skin on her back. She knew
she should be scared, but the something in her gut was unsatisfied with
just control over her body; it had infiltrated her emotions, too, and she felt
victorious.
Old Mary Robertson dipped her head down to the pool, and took a long
drink. The water was sweet. It slurped through the long knot of tubes inside
her, and the slithering thing shivered in ecstasy. The something in her gut
seized her up, and made her run faster than she could have in her prime.
She ran with long strides, gracefully hidden beneath her flowing dress.
Right that she should’ve worn it; this was to be her crowning achievement.
It was good that she look like a duchess; she was to become a queen. She
ran until she was flying, and she flew until she wasn’t moving at all, just the
world spinning away around her.
“Bloody hell,” James Robertson said, peeking out the shutters. “Tha’s my
wife, runnin’ down tha’ hill! An’ in her best dress, too!”
Mary Robertson approached the town like a bird of prey, swooping into
the valley where the village sat.
And then, on the very edge behind the Knox’s pastures and the
Robertson’s fields, she stopped. There was very little Mary Robertson left
in Mary Robertson, just a quivering, curled up echo in a dark corner of the
mind that was no longer hers. And it was being consumed.
“Excuse me, I have to go.” James Robertson let himself out of the Knox
shack, and walked angrily up to what had been his wife. “Just what the hell
do ya think yer doin’?”
The woman in the pink dress tilted her head, as though listening curiously,
and then tilted it some more, as though trying to work out a cramp. The
head kept moving, and it tilted until it was back right side up again, making
horrible, wet snapping noises all the while. Blood began to dribble from its
eyes.
“Oh Lord,” Jeremiah Knox said, watching through the window. It was
only months ago he had seen his little son do the same thing. He pulled on
a jacket, and ran outside. Billy Robertson hadn’t been listening, or looking
out the window, so he took the opportunity to nick a lump of raw meat.
The expression on her face was a grin, but it was certainly not a smile.
The thing was finally able to complete the sentence it had been working
on all day: “I, Hunger, spirit of this land, am awoken! I, HUNGER, AM
AWAKE!”
The face was no longer Mary Robertson’s, but little Bobby Knox’s. She
opened her mouth as though to scream, and her jaw unhinged and her lips
shattered, and a fistful of pale green tentacles burst out.
Tendrils, the color of the worm in the apple, burst from her back and
poured from under her dress, and curled around her, wriggling.
6
Carl L ew a n d o w s k i
Carl Lewando wski
James Robertson elected to cover the newly formed abyss in the yard with
his coat, even though it was chilly out.
“Thing gives me the creeps.”
But Jeremiah Knox remained silent. He was thinking of an unreleased detail
in the death of his son.
“Come on,” he said, wanting to get away from the painful reminder. “I was
wonderin’ if’n you could you could come help me cut up ‘ol Bess. Had to kill
‘er yesterday. I’d give ya a steak or two.”
“Well, I ain’ one to pass up food, ‘specially in time’s like this. I’ll see if
William ain’ up yet, he might wanna help too.” He leaned into the first floor
window. “Mary! Wake up William, won’t ya?”
“I hunger!”
“Don’t we all, sweet. Don’t we all.”
Mary Robertson had no control over her mouth and her words. She limped
up the stairs, chewing on more than just her fingernails. With every speck she
ingested, the knot in her gut wriggled and seemed to grow.
“William!” she choked out in a rare moment of control. “Go help your... I
hunger... father!”
The milk cow’s carcass had a thin patina of meat on its bones, but little
more than that.
“She was a good cow,” Jeremiah said, a little maudlin. “She was Bobby’s
favorite. Good milk, too. Thick and frothy.”
“How’re you gonna keep the meat?”
“Well, I’ll ice what I can, but it’ll spoil sooner or later. I guess I’ll take most
of it to market. People need the food.”
Mary Robertson was really struggling now. There was something pushing
its way up the throat she knew she didn’t have, and her legs weren’t working
on her side anymore. They had grown sturdy again, and she stood taller than
she had in years. The thing filling her chest cavity seized one leg, and then the
other, and the old Robertson woman walked like a duchess out the door, with
head and chest held high.
She strode through the blighted potatoes, and past the gnarled apple tree.
She ascended the sweeping hill behind them, and looked up to the grey sky. The
grey sky recognized her, or the thing inside of her, and looked back, as though
afraid. Mary Robertson ran through the moors and hills, dragging her pink
dress through the mud.
Finally, she came to a place where the bush stopped, and the animals were
quiet, and the earth threw light up to the sky, instead of the other way round. It
was a perfect circle, lined on all sides by fungus, and larger than the Robertson
house. At the outside edge, the earth was hard and dry with drought, but as
her legs moved her, the ground transitioned smoothly into a viscous mud. She
was up to her ankles, and the ground was just about to become too watery to
stand in without sinking, when she stopped for a moment in reverence, before
continuing in.
The center of the circle was a perfectly clear pool, like a looking glass. It
was stagnant and pristine, entirely still. Mary Robertson looked at her face in
the pool. The haggard lines on her face were not as steep as she remembered
5
them, and there was a youth in her eyes she was certain she did not possess.
“I hunger...” said the thing holding her tongue, louder this time.
Triumphant. “I HUNGER!”

The knot inside of her had filled all the space left by the organs it had
evicted, and was still growing. She could feel it spilling into her arms and
legs, and pressing against the confines of the skin on her back. She knew
she should be scared, but the something in her gut was unsatisfied with
just control over her body; it had infiltrated her emotions, too, and she felt
victorious.
Old Mary Robertson dipped her head down to the pool, and took a long
drink. The water was sweet. It slurped through the long knot of tubes inside
her, and the slithering thing shivered in ecstasy. The something in her gut
seized her up, and made her run faster than she could have in her prime.
She ran with long strides, gracefully hidden beneath her flowing dress.
Right that she should’ve worn it; this was to be her crowning achievement.
It was good that she look like a duchess; she was to become a queen. She
ran until she was flying, and she flew until she wasn’t moving at all, just the
world spinning away around her.
“Bloody hell,” James Robertson said, peeking out the shutters. “Tha’s my
wife, runnin’ down tha’ hill! An’ in her best dress, too!”
Mary Robertson approached the town like a bird of prey, swooping into
the valley where the village sat.
And then, on the very edge behind the Knox’s pastures and the
Robertson’s fields, she stopped. There was very little Mary Robertson left
in Mary Robertson, just a quivering, curled up echo in a dark corner of the
mind that was no longer hers. And it was being consumed.
“Excuse me, I have to go.” James Robertson let himself out of the Knox
shack, and walked angrily up to what had been his wife. “Just what the hell
do ya think yer doin’?”
The woman in the pink dress tilted her head, as though listening curiously,
and then tilted it some more, as though trying to work out a cramp. The
head kept moving, and it tilted until it was back right side up again, making
horrible, wet snapping noises all the while. Blood began to dribble from its
eyes.
“Oh Lord,” Jeremiah Knox said, watching through the window. It was
only months ago he had seen his little son do the same thing. He pulled on
a jacket, and ran outside. Billy Robertson hadn’t been listening, or looking
out the window, so he took the opportunity to nick a lump of raw meat.
The expression on her face was a grin, but it was certainly not a smile.
The thing was finally able to complete the sentence it had been working
on all day: “I, Hunger, spirit of this land, am awoken! I, HUNGER, AM
AWAKE!”
The face was no longer Mary Robertson’s, but little Bobby Knox’s. She
opened her mouth as though to scream, and her jaw unhinged and her lips
shattered, and a fistful of pale green tentacles burst out.
Tendrils, the color of the worm in the apple, burst from her back and
poured from under her dress, and curled around her, wriggling.
6
Ca rl Lew a n d o w s k i
Carl Lewando wski
“I shall feast upon your famine!”
Below her, a crevice ripped open in the earth, with jagged, toothlike
edges. The pit widened and stretched and headed towards the town.
The Robertson shack crumbled and fell into the mouth first, followed by
the Madisons, who were unfortunately sitting around the bare dinner table
when their house was swallowed up. The Arnold sow went squealing into
the pit, and then little Maggie Arnold, who thought it looked like fun. Their
creaky wooden house and all in it toppled soon enough.
Hunger burped.
Jeremiah Knox and James Robertson clung to each other on a small
patch of land.
“It’s a devil! A demon!” The potato farmer ripped a wooden cross off his
neck and flung it at Hunger.
She caught it in her mouth and swallowed it.
The patch of ground they were standing on was now too small to stand
on comfortably, and growing smaller.
“JUMP!” Jeremiah Knox shouted. The pit widened just to swallow them
up. James Robertson’s fingertips buried themselves in the dirt of the cliff
face, and he struggled to pull himself up. The ground crumbled, and as it
was eaten away, James Robertson began to slide.
Jeremiah Knox landed with both feet on the edge of the mainland, but
the earth crumbled beneath his feet and he teetered off the edge. Hunger
licked her lips.
The wall James Robertson was hanging onto crumbled into chunks of
dirt and he plummeted. Something grabbed him as he fell. The pale-green
tendril slithered around his arms and his legs and pulled him up.
“No, no, sweet,” Hunger purred. “I shall eat you myself. I want to taste
you!”
The side of her mouth tore up into her pudgy, childlike cheeks, and her
jaw unhinged to reveal a cluster of eager tentacles surrounded by a ring of
jagged yellow teeth.
James Robertson struggled against his fleshy shackles, but they only
squeezed harder.
“Don’t make me kill you, sweet. I prefer my food live and squirming!”
The tentacle lifted him high in the air, and he stared straight down into
Hunger’s maw. The tentacle unwound quickly, and dropped him right into
the belly of the beast.
He braced his hands on her shoulders, and flipped himself over her
head. He landed miraculously on the edge of the earth. Hunger hovered for
a second, bewildered.
Then, she hissed, “You can’t run from me, sweet.”
She looked back at him over her shoulder, and then twisted her head
back towards him a little bit further than it should have been able to go.
She threw her shoulders into it too, and her whole torso pivoted around
backwards. Her spine expressed its displeasure with an unhealthy crack.
She slithered over air to where he lay on the ground. He scampered into
a standing position and began to sprint.
7
He ran towards the O’Connor farmhouse, feet pounding. Soon he
was flanked by a crack in the earth on one side and a bloody, tentacular
monstrosity on the other.
If he could reach the farmhouse, he might be safe. If he could reach the
farmhouse he might be safe. If he could...
The carnivorous canyon got there first, and devoured the building. Wood
panels and nails flew into the air and fell into the ground. It was a tall house,
and it came down slowly.
“You shouldn’t have made me do that, sweet,” Hunger spat. “I don’t want
to loose my appetite.”
He looked around desperately, tentacles closing in on all sides. There was
an old shovel on the ground. He swung it about wildly.
Rust, metal, and matted dirt met flesh, blood, and bone.
A sickly-green tentacle went careening into the pit, and another, and
another.
He raised his shovel again, but a flexible green limb found itself wrapped
around his wrist, and took its opportunity. Soon he was elbow deep in
mouth tentacles, with twisted yellow teeth raking at his skin. Hunger took a
bite, and her teeth cut through his arm as easily as apple skin.
James Robertson stumbled up the hill, clutching the stub of his forearm.
“Delicious!” Hunger hissed, licking her bloody chops. She snapped her
vertebral column some more, swiveling around to catch sight of him again.
“I think I’ll have seconds.”
He ran up the hill, trying to ignore the pain in his gaping elbow and the
horrible slobbering sound of the spirit behind him. He tripped over a stone
and fell right into her clutches. She lifted him over her head, carrying him
high in the air with her, and the tentacles of her mouth reached up to greet
him. An eager tendril felt at his face.
In one last effort, he snatched it with his one good hand, and yanked
as hard as he could. Hunger’s sunken eyes became wide with shock. Her
tentacles flailed, trying to pull their lost member free, and only succeeded
in tying themselves in a knot.
She made a muffled choking noise, and dropped out of the sky.
They hit the ground hard, Hunger under James Robertson. Her great
mass of tentacles provided enough of a cushion that he was unhurt, but the
same could not be sad for Mary Robertson. She began to ooze blood, and
burbled something incomprehensible.
As far as last words go, the spirit’s were getting a little long, so he ground
her neck into the soil with his heel, and that seemed to shut her up. Finally
the last of the green tentacles stopped twitching, and he felt safe to look
around.
There was some scar tissue in the land, where the mouth in the earth
had shut its lips tightly. His house, his fields, and his knotted apple tree,
were all replaced by a piece of empty land as barren than his fields had been.
Miraculously spared were the Knox cottage, and most of the town on the
other side of where the market had been.
He heard some shouts coming from the McCrimmon’s house, something
8
Ca rl Lew a n d o w s k i
Carl Lewando wski
“I shall feast upon your famine!”
Below her, a crevice ripped open in the earth, with jagged, toothlike
edges. The pit widened and stretched and headed towards the town.
The Robertson shack crumbled and fell into the mouth first, followed by
the Madisons, who were unfortunately sitting around the bare dinner table
when their house was swallowed up. The Arnold sow went squealing into
the pit, and then little Maggie Arnold, who thought it looked like fun. Their
creaky wooden house and all in it toppled soon enough.
Hunger burped.
Jeremiah Knox and James Robertson clung to each other on a small
patch of land.
“It’s a devil! A demon!” The potato farmer ripped a wooden cross off his
neck and flung it at Hunger.
She caught it in her mouth and swallowed it.
The patch of ground they were standing on was now too small to stand
on comfortably, and growing smaller.
“JUMP!” Jeremiah Knox shouted. The pit widened just to swallow them
up. James Robertson’s fingertips buried themselves in the dirt of the cliff
face, and he struggled to pull himself up. The ground crumbled, and as it
was eaten away, James Robertson began to slide.
Jeremiah Knox landed with both feet on the edge of the mainland, but
the earth crumbled beneath his feet and he teetered off the edge. Hunger
licked her lips.
The wall James Robertson was hanging onto crumbled into chunks of
dirt and he plummeted. Something grabbed him as he fell. The pale-green
tendril slithered around his arms and his legs and pulled him up.
“No, no, sweet,” Hunger purred. “I shall eat you myself. I want to taste
you!”
The side of her mouth tore up into her pudgy, childlike cheeks, and her
jaw unhinged to reveal a cluster of eager tentacles surrounded by a ring of
jagged yellow teeth.
James Robertson struggled against his fleshy shackles, but they only
squeezed harder.
“Don’t make me kill you, sweet. I prefer my food live and squirming!”
The tentacle lifted him high in the air, and he stared straight down into
Hunger’s maw. The tentacle unwound quickly, and dropped him right into
the belly of the beast.
He braced his hands on her shoulders, and flipped himself over her
head. He landed miraculously on the edge of the earth. Hunger hovered for
a second, bewildered.
Then, she hissed, “You can’t run from me, sweet.”
She looked back at him over her shoulder, and then twisted her head
back towards him a little bit further than it should have been able to go.
She threw her shoulders into it too, and her whole torso pivoted around
backwards. Her spine expressed its displeasure with an unhealthy crack.
She slithered over air to where he lay on the ground. He scampered into
a standing position and began to sprint.
7
He ran towards the O’Connor farmhouse, feet pounding. Soon he
was flanked by a crack in the earth on one side and a bloody, tentacular
monstrosity on the other.
If he could reach the farmhouse, he might be safe. If he could reach the
farmhouse he might be safe. If he could...
The carnivorous canyon got there first, and devoured the building. Wood
panels and nails flew into the air and fell into the ground. It was a tall house,
and it came down slowly.
“You shouldn’t have made me do that, sweet,” Hunger spat. “I don’t want
to loose my appetite.”
He looked around desperately, tentacles closing in on all sides. There was
an old shovel on the ground. He swung it about wildly.
Rust, metal, and matted dirt met flesh, blood, and bone.
A sickly-green tentacle went careening into the pit, and another, and
another.
He raised his shovel again, but a flexible green limb found itself wrapped
around his wrist, and took its opportunity. Soon he was elbow deep in
mouth tentacles, with twisted yellow teeth raking at his skin. Hunger took a
bite, and her teeth cut through his arm as easily as apple skin.
James Robertson stumbled up the hill, clutching the stub of his forearm.
“Delicious!” Hunger hissed, licking her bloody chops. She snapped her
vertebral column some more, swiveling around to catch sight of him again.
“I think I’ll have seconds.”
He ran up the hill, trying to ignore the pain in his gaping elbow and the
horrible slobbering sound of the spirit behind him. He tripped over a stone
and fell right into her clutches. She lifted him over her head, carrying him
high in the air with her, and the tentacles of her mouth reached up to greet
him. An eager tendril felt at his face.
In one last effort, he snatched it with his one good hand, and yanked
as hard as he could. Hunger’s sunken eyes became wide with shock. Her
tentacles flailed, trying to pull their lost member free, and only succeeded
in tying themselves in a knot.
She made a muffled choking noise, and dropped out of the sky.
They hit the ground hard, Hunger under James Robertson. Her great
mass of tentacles provided enough of a cushion that he was unhurt, but the
same could not be sad for Mary Robertson. She began to ooze blood, and
burbled something incomprehensible.
As far as last words go, the spirit’s were getting a little long, so he ground
her neck into the soil with his heel, and that seemed to shut her up. Finally
the last of the green tentacles stopped twitching, and he felt safe to look
around.
There was some scar tissue in the land, where the mouth in the earth
had shut its lips tightly. His house, his fields, and his knotted apple tree,
were all replaced by a piece of empty land as barren than his fields had been.
Miraculously spared were the Knox cottage, and most of the town on the
other side of where the market had been.
He heard some shouts coming from the McCrimmon’s house, something
8
Brad Osuna
Ca rl Lew a n d o w s k i
Lov e Wa l k s I n
about pumpkins, plural, and orange not green, and knew that from now on
everything was going to be all right.
He gazed down at the body of Hunger, and picked it up.
That evening, in the house they’d decided Jeremiah Knox would have
wanted them to have, the remaining two Robertsons had the first good meal
they’d had in a year. It was a thick, creamy stew made with pumpkins from
the McCrimmons and warm milk from the lone survivor of the Knox family,
a cow called Nadine.
The stew was served in bowls next to plates piled high with more meat
than anyone could have dreamed of a month ago. Billy Robertson impaled
one of the circular chunks of meat and chewed on it. It was thick and
rubbery, and had a tinge of pale green in its white color.
“Papa,” the boy said, “this ain’ the meat we got from Ol’ Bess, is it now?”
“...”
“Well?”
“Eat up, son.”
9
Here I am again. Standing behind the bar, drying glasses, listening
to the jukebox. It’s twelve forty-five in the morning on a Thursday. The rain
pounds against the front window. The dusty bulbs barely light the floor of the
bar, and the prominent lighting source comes from the neon Open-sign flickering sporadically. Damn thing drives me crazy. The wooden tables that border
the walls are clean; their booths have been swept along with the worn carpeted
floor imprinted with that God-awful design, and the counter of the bar is spotless. All that remains is wiping the glasses and organizing them according to
size. After that, it’s closing time.
“Last call, Herschel,” I say, looking at the last remaining patron in the
bar, his head, resting in his hand.
The old man had been coming here for as long as I remember. He’s
always here during my shift, and has a symbiotic relationship with the bar. Herschel has never caused any trouble, although he has passed out a significant
number of times. All he does is drink his beer and keep to himself, unless a game
is on the old TV. Then he becomes a screaming lunatic.
“Herschel,” I repeat, “Closing time.”
Still no answer. I walk to the other end of the bar and stare at his
scruffy face hidden behind the scraggly grey hair. His eyes are closed, but he’s
still breathing.
“Dammit, wake up!” I exclaim, shoving his shoulder.
Herschel jumps and nearly knocks over his beer. His eyes are almost
closed shut, shielding him from the bright light. Disoriented and tipsy, he attempts to get off of his stool.
“What—what time is it?” he says between drunken hiccups.
“Closing time, Herschel. I’ll just put this all on your tab.”
“Okay,” he mutters half-consciously as he stumbles to the door, opposite of the bar top.
“Be safe getting home,” I say as he opens the door, allowing a gust of
cool air and rain to enter in. Now I’m alone. Again. As I have been for months. The only sound
comes from the rain hammering against the window and the acoustic guitar
humming through the speakers. I squat down behind the counter and begin
stocking the glasses I had dried earlier, like so many nights before. I start to
sing along with Neil. Old man, take a look at my life, I’m a lot like you. I need
someone to love me the whole day through. This song has been played so many
times, I’ve worn out the record back at my apartment.
I hear another gust of wind pour in and the rain gets louder; the door
is opening. I stay crouched behind the bar and continue stocking glasses.
10
Brad Osuna
Ca rl Lew a n d o w s k i
Lov e Wa l k s I n
about pumpkins, plural, and orange not green, and knew that from now on
everything was going to be all right.
He gazed down at the body of Hunger, and picked it up.
That evening, in the house they’d decided Jeremiah Knox would have
wanted them to have, the remaining two Robertsons had the first good meal
they’d had in a year. It was a thick, creamy stew made with pumpkins from
the McCrimmons and warm milk from the lone survivor of the Knox family,
a cow called Nadine.
The stew was served in bowls next to plates piled high with more meat
than anyone could have dreamed of a month ago. Billy Robertson impaled
one of the circular chunks of meat and chewed on it. It was thick and
rubbery, and had a tinge of pale green in its white color.
“Papa,” the boy said, “this ain’ the meat we got from Ol’ Bess, is it now?”
“...”
“Well?”
“Eat up, son.”
9
Here I am again. Standing behind the bar, drying glasses, listening
to the jukebox. It’s twelve forty-five in the morning on a Thursday. The rain
pounds against the front window. The dusty bulbs barely light the floor of the
bar, and the prominent lighting source comes from the neon Open-sign flickering sporadically. Damn thing drives me crazy. The wooden tables that border
the walls are clean; their booths have been swept along with the worn carpeted
floor imprinted with that God-awful design, and the counter of the bar is spotless. All that remains is wiping the glasses and organizing them according to
size. After that, it’s closing time.
“Last call, Herschel,” I say, looking at the last remaining patron in the
bar, his head, resting in his hand.
The old man had been coming here for as long as I remember. He’s
always here during my shift, and has a symbiotic relationship with the bar. Herschel has never caused any trouble, although he has passed out a significant
number of times. All he does is drink his beer and keep to himself, unless a game
is on the old TV. Then he becomes a screaming lunatic.
“Herschel,” I repeat, “Closing time.”
Still no answer. I walk to the other end of the bar and stare at his
scruffy face hidden behind the scraggly grey hair. His eyes are closed, but he’s
still breathing.
“Dammit, wake up!” I exclaim, shoving his shoulder.
Herschel jumps and nearly knocks over his beer. His eyes are almost
closed shut, shielding him from the bright light. Disoriented and tipsy, he attempts to get off of his stool.
“What—what time is it?” he says between drunken hiccups.
“Closing time, Herschel. I’ll just put this all on your tab.”
“Okay,” he mutters half-consciously as he stumbles to the door, opposite of the bar top.
“Be safe getting home,” I say as he opens the door, allowing a gust of
cool air and rain to enter in. Now I’m alone. Again. As I have been for months. The only sound
comes from the rain hammering against the window and the acoustic guitar
humming through the speakers. I squat down behind the counter and begin
stocking the glasses I had dried earlier, like so many nights before. I start to
sing along with Neil. Old man, take a look at my life, I’m a lot like you. I need
someone to love me the whole day through. This song has been played so many
times, I’ve worn out the record back at my apartment.
I hear another gust of wind pour in and the rain gets louder; the door
is opening. I stay crouched behind the bar and continue stocking glasses.
10
Brad Osuna
Brad Osuna
“Forget your keys again, Herschel?” I say, mocking his previous misfortunes.
“I don’t know who Herschel is, but all I know is that I need a drink.”
My eyes widen and my chest begins to beat faster. I know that voice.
I immediately spring up off the floor. It is she. She stands in between the door
and the bar, her skin shining from the rain. Her brown hair has remained curly,
despite the weather and normal fraying as the day progresses. She’s my height,
maybe an inch or two shorter. She wears a light green, low-cut top and jeans.
Her beauty is like no other.
“Well, hello there,” I say. I never was good at starting a conversation
with a girl.
“I’d like my normal stress reliever, please,” she says, taking a seat at the
bar.
“Margarita. Two limes, no salt.”
“See, now I feel like an alcoholic because you know that off the top of
your head,” she jokes.
“No,” I laugh as I stir her drink. “You’re just easy to remember.”
“Oh really? Is that a bad thing?”
“Of course not,” I respond, placing her drink down on a napkin in
front of her.
She smiles. After taking a long sip, she lets out an exaggerated sigh of
relief and looks to me.
“This is exactly what I needed,” she starts. “It has been a long day.”
“I hear ya. Work?” I ask.
“None other than.”
“Where do you work again?”
She has been patronizing my bar for only a few weeks now, mostly during my shift. I should know where she works, because she has told me before. I
should also know her name. I want to know her name. And everything about her.
“That little bakery over on Sherlock Avenue. It’s not a bad place. We
have some pretty good deserts over there and the pay isn’t bad. I just hate dealing with stupid people.”
“Believe me, you are not the only one. Try dealing with stupid drunk
people. I already have very little patience to begin with. But, I have to bring
in money somehow, and I’ve worked here since I left my parents’ house, so I
figured I just stay.”
She finishes the first margarita, and looks down at the bar top, a sad
expression on her face. I reach for glass and begin to make her another one.
“Yeah,” she starts, “I’m working to get out of my parents’ house. I had
to go back after my boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend—decided to break it off. I
was living with him in his apartment at that time so I had to go somewhere.”
My heart begins to jump; she is single.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, anger directed towards to the scumbag
who would break her heart. “Trust me, I know how it feels. Dated a girl for
three years and thinks just went to hell. My parents were getting divorced, and
I didn’t feel like dealing with the fighting so I moved out the minute I turned
eighteen. Got a job at this nice little place, and here I am.”
She stares at me, her head leaning on her fist, displaying a sympathetic
gaze. I stare back at her. My heart beats faster with every passing second. Her
beauty stuns me, but her personality attracts me the most. Over these short
weeks I have known her, we have established so much common ground through
small talk and discussion on a few serious topics. We think the same, logically,
socially, and even morally. Our taste in music is identical, as well as our sense
of humor. The similarities revealed through the conversations only push me further toward the pool of emotions I’m standing over.
“Y’know, you’ve been coming here for a while now, and I don’t even
know your name,” I say, breaking the moment.
She giggles and starts to twirl her hair.
“Mikaela. I should know yours, too, right?”
“Bruce. It’s nice to finally know your name,” I respond with a smile.
She takes a sip of her margarita, and I squat back down to resume
stocking glasses. I haven’t glanced at the clock in a while, but I imagine I was
supposed to close the bar down by now. When Mikaela is here, I don’t want to
leave.
“I finished reading that book you were talking about a week or two
ago,” she says.
“And what book was that?” I ask.
“The Mist. That one by Stephen King. Remember you told me you read
it and really liked it?”
“Oh, yeah. Now I remember.”
The fact that she remembers a minor detail from our conversation
impresses me. She was attentive to me, and that’s enough to strengthen any
emotions. I stand up to talk to her.
“Did you like it?”
She pauses for a moment to think before saying, “Yeah, it was pretty
good, actually. It was more about their survival and conflicts than the monsters
or bugs or whatever the hell was in the mist which is why I think I liked it. The
only part I didn’t like was the ending because—”
11
12
Brad Osuna
Brad Osuna
“Forget your keys again, Herschel?” I say, mocking his previous misfortunes.
“I don’t know who Herschel is, but all I know is that I need a drink.”
My eyes widen and my chest begins to beat faster. I know that voice.
I immediately spring up off the floor. It is she. She stands in between the door
and the bar, her skin shining from the rain. Her brown hair has remained curly,
despite the weather and normal fraying as the day progresses. She’s my height,
maybe an inch or two shorter. She wears a light green, low-cut top and jeans.
Her beauty is like no other.
“Well, hello there,” I say. I never was good at starting a conversation
with a girl.
“I’d like my normal stress reliever, please,” she says, taking a seat at the
bar.
“Margarita. Two limes, no salt.”
“See, now I feel like an alcoholic because you know that off the top of
your head,” she jokes.
“No,” I laugh as I stir her drink. “You’re just easy to remember.”
“Oh really? Is that a bad thing?”
“Of course not,” I respond, placing her drink down on a napkin in
front of her.
She smiles. After taking a long sip, she lets out an exaggerated sigh of
relief and looks to me.
“This is exactly what I needed,” she starts. “It has been a long day.”
“I hear ya. Work?” I ask.
“None other than.”
“Where do you work again?”
She has been patronizing my bar for only a few weeks now, mostly during my shift. I should know where she works, because she has told me before. I
should also know her name. I want to know her name. And everything about her.
“That little bakery over on Sherlock Avenue. It’s not a bad place. We
have some pretty good deserts over there and the pay isn’t bad. I just hate dealing with stupid people.”
“Believe me, you are not the only one. Try dealing with stupid drunk
people. I already have very little patience to begin with. But, I have to bring
in money somehow, and I’ve worked here since I left my parents’ house, so I
figured I just stay.”
She finishes the first margarita, and looks down at the bar top, a sad
expression on her face. I reach for glass and begin to make her another one.
“Yeah,” she starts, “I’m working to get out of my parents’ house. I had
to go back after my boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend—decided to break it off. I
was living with him in his apartment at that time so I had to go somewhere.”
My heart begins to jump; she is single.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, anger directed towards to the scumbag
who would break her heart. “Trust me, I know how it feels. Dated a girl for
three years and thinks just went to hell. My parents were getting divorced, and
I didn’t feel like dealing with the fighting so I moved out the minute I turned
eighteen. Got a job at this nice little place, and here I am.”
She stares at me, her head leaning on her fist, displaying a sympathetic
gaze. I stare back at her. My heart beats faster with every passing second. Her
beauty stuns me, but her personality attracts me the most. Over these short
weeks I have known her, we have established so much common ground through
small talk and discussion on a few serious topics. We think the same, logically,
socially, and even morally. Our taste in music is identical, as well as our sense
of humor. The similarities revealed through the conversations only push me further toward the pool of emotions I’m standing over.
“Y’know, you’ve been coming here for a while now, and I don’t even
know your name,” I say, breaking the moment.
She giggles and starts to twirl her hair.
“Mikaela. I should know yours, too, right?”
“Bruce. It’s nice to finally know your name,” I respond with a smile.
She takes a sip of her margarita, and I squat back down to resume
stocking glasses. I haven’t glanced at the clock in a while, but I imagine I was
supposed to close the bar down by now. When Mikaela is here, I don’t want to
leave.
“I finished reading that book you were talking about a week or two
ago,” she says.
“And what book was that?” I ask.
“The Mist. That one by Stephen King. Remember you told me you read
it and really liked it?”
“Oh, yeah. Now I remember.”
The fact that she remembers a minor detail from our conversation
impresses me. She was attentive to me, and that’s enough to strengthen any
emotions. I stand up to talk to her.
“Did you like it?”
She pauses for a moment to think before saying, “Yeah, it was pretty
good, actually. It was more about their survival and conflicts than the monsters
or bugs or whatever the hell was in the mist which is why I think I liked it. The
only part I didn’t like was the ending because—”
11
12
Brad Osuna
andrew Frank
“Too ambiguous?”
“Exactly!” Mikaela proclaims, throwing her arms out in emphasis.
“Like did they get away, or did they die. And what caused it all.”
“Or was it all a dream,” I add.
She shakes her head and laughs. I can’t help but smile whenever she
laughs.
Mikaela turns around and searches for the clock. It hangs next to the
window, which has the bar’s name printed on it, facing the outside the world.
The rain no longer pours against the window, but falls in a steady stream.
“It’s two o’clock?!” she exclaims. “You’re supposed to cut me off, bartender!”
“Ma’am, you’ve had two margaritas. Please give me your keys,” I respond.
We both laugh, and I find myself staring at her again. I want her to be
mine. I long for that happy relationship I thought I once had. However, I want
this one to be real. I just need to say something. But what if she says no? What if
she doesn’t feel like I do? Stop. Stop doubting. No matter how many times I tell
myself to ask her on a date, I can never bring myself to do it.
“Well, I better go home and sleep, considering I have to open the bakery tomorrow morning,” she says. “How much do I owe you?”
“Let me check,” I say with a smile.
Sure I’m smiling on the outside, but inside my heart sinks. She’s leaving. She’ll be back, but I can’t wait that long. What if she finds someone else in
that brief time? What if her feelings toward me diminish, assuming they exist?
Stop. Stop assuming and making up what-ifs.
I walk to the other side of the bar. I hear the jukebox more clearly
down at this end and listen intently to the song. A lonely melody comes from
the piano, followed by Ann Wilson’s angelic voice. Heart’s Alone is the anthem
of all those desiring someone they can’t have. It is one of my favorites for that
reason. And Nancy’s guitar solo, which only intensifies the heartache.
I hold her tab in my hand. Mikaela watches as me as I return. My emotions pervade my thinking and I crumple up the paper.
“You know what? I got this round,” I explain.
Her glossy lips form a flirtatious grin and her teeth shine.
“You’re too sweet,” she says as she stands up.
My heart throbs even more and the feelings increase; I haven’t been
complimented in a long time. I’m not sure how to respond except with a gleeful
expression and a “thanks”. It only causes me to yearn for her affection more.
“I’ll see you later,” she says as she slides a ten across the counter. 13
14
Brad Osuna
andrew Frank
“Too ambiguous?”
“Exactly!” Mikaela proclaims, throwing her arms out in emphasis.
“Like did they get away, or did they die. And what caused it all.”
“Or was it all a dream,” I add.
She shakes her head and laughs. I can’t help but smile whenever she
laughs.
Mikaela turns around and searches for the clock. It hangs next to the
window, which has the bar’s name printed on it, facing the outside the world.
The rain no longer pours against the window, but falls in a steady stream.
“It’s two o’clock?!” she exclaims. “You’re supposed to cut me off, bartender!”
“Ma’am, you’ve had two margaritas. Please give me your keys,” I respond.
We both laugh, and I find myself staring at her again. I want her to be
mine. I long for that happy relationship I thought I once had. However, I want
this one to be real. I just need to say something. But what if she says no? What if
she doesn’t feel like I do? Stop. Stop doubting. No matter how many times I tell
myself to ask her on a date, I can never bring myself to do it.
“Well, I better go home and sleep, considering I have to open the bakery tomorrow morning,” she says. “How much do I owe you?”
“Let me check,” I say with a smile.
Sure I’m smiling on the outside, but inside my heart sinks. She’s leaving. She’ll be back, but I can’t wait that long. What if she finds someone else in
that brief time? What if her feelings toward me diminish, assuming they exist?
Stop. Stop assuming and making up what-ifs.
I walk to the other side of the bar. I hear the jukebox more clearly
down at this end and listen intently to the song. A lonely melody comes from
the piano, followed by Ann Wilson’s angelic voice. Heart’s Alone is the anthem
of all those desiring someone they can’t have. It is one of my favorites for that
reason. And Nancy’s guitar solo, which only intensifies the heartache.
I hold her tab in my hand. Mikaela watches as me as I return. My emotions pervade my thinking and I crumple up the paper.
“You know what? I got this round,” I explain.
Her glossy lips form a flirtatious grin and her teeth shine.
“You’re too sweet,” she says as she stands up.
My heart throbs even more and the feelings increase; I haven’t been
complimented in a long time. I’m not sure how to respond except with a gleeful
expression and a “thanks”. It only causes me to yearn for her affection more.
“I’ll see you later,” she says as she slides a ten across the counter. 13
14
Brad Osuna
Brad Osuna
“Thanks again for the drinks. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”
“Well, it was very sweet of you,” she says as she walks toward the door,
looking at me over her shoulder and waving. “See you next time.”
She opens the door and walks out. The rain seems to be picking up again. I let
out a heavy sigh.
“Dammit!” I yell to no one as I throw my hand towel across the bar.
I allowed her to slip away again. Now I have to wait until, and hope
that, she comes back. My heart sinks back where it seems destined to be, the
place it’s been trying to escape from for months.
You don’t know how long I have wanted, to touch lips and hold you
tight. You don’t know how long I have waited, and I was going to tell you tonight. But the secret is still my own, and my love for you is still unknown.
Alone.
No. Not this time. I can’t stand the waiting and the thoughts of what
may or may not be. I am not going to be alone. Think of what could be. Happiness. I have to go to her.
I rush around the bar and across the floor. Shoving the door out of the
way, I scan the parking lot. A tall rusty streetlight, held upright by an eroding
cement block, is the only light source. It stands in the middle of the lot, emitting enough light to see the edges of the barren property and out to the quiet
street ahead. A silver pickup, the only vehicle present, is parked underneath the
pole. I become excited for a brief moment upon spotting it, but then my heart
falls. It’s the only car, and it’s Herschel’s.
I let out a heavy sigh, attempting to rid the emotional pain out of my
body. It fails, as it has for the past umpteenth months. My shoulders drop as I
turn around and head back inside. Back to stocking glasses and drunks. Back
to loneliness, depression, and the shred of hope left that things will eventually
improve.
I lift my head up, shifting my gaze from the ground to the door. It
is only when I do so do I notice headlights beaming onto the right side of the
building. The light reflects off the dumpsters the car sits next to, obstructing my
view of the driver. My chest becomes lighter as I jog over to the car.
As I come closer, the blinding reflection from the dumpsters dulls and the car
becomes clearer. A maroon BMW, covered in scratches, rust, and dents, rumbles in the parking spot. I approach the driver side door, and find a girl, approximately my age, with curly brown hair, leaning against the window with an
impatient expression. I have found her.
Upon seeing me, Mikaela smiles and waves. I return the gesture. My
palms sweat, my heart pulses, and my gut knots with anticipation as she opens
the door and exits the car. We stand three feet apart, but I want to be closer to
her, and wrap my arms around her. But first I must provide the spark to ignite
the fire.
“This damn engine sucks. When it starts, if it starts, I have to let it run
for a while so it doesn’t break down as soon as I put it in gear,” she says. “Am I
in your way? Am I blocking the dumpster?”
“No, no. I already took out the garbage,” I laugh. “I actually came out
here to talk to you.”
She’s maintaining a smile. Her blue eyes glow with optimism, for everything she has been through, everything she has told me, cannot hinder her
positive attitude.
“Well?”
Here I go.
“You’ve been coming here for a while now, and we’ve talked and
laughed about small and serious things alike. From what I’ve gathered from
those conversations, I just—I just think you are amazing. You are so beautiful,
and funny, and you understand me. We share a lot in common and have similar
backgrounds. I’d really like to get to know you even more. Whenever you come
into the bar, I forget every other customer is there. My focus is on you. Even
when I’m not at work, I look forward to seeing you again, but I know I only will
at work, which is why I wanted to ask for your number, and possibly a date.”
Wow, that was more than I expected myself to say. I’m looking into her stunning eyes, wondering what she is thinking. Her facial expression says it though:
her eyes look back into mine, her teeth shine, and her lips form a smile that
stretches from ear to ear.
“Thank you. No one has said things like that to me in a long time. Truth
is, I was actually out here debating whether or not to go back in and talk to you
about the same thing.”
With the sound of those words, my chest becomes as light as a feather.
My heart rate stays the same, only it beats now not out of anxiety, but out of a
feeling that has been absent from my life for too long.
Mikaela reaches into her car, fiddles around for something, and emerges with a piece of paper and a pen. Placing it on the hood of her car, she begins
to scribble seven numbers, the code to unlocking happiness again. She turns
around and places the paper in my hand, which have luckily stopped sweating,
but still quiver with that post-anxiety feeling I get. I glance at it: seven numbers
and a heart after the seventh. I look back up and into her blue eyes. My joy
overwhelms me, and I am speechless. She wraps her arms around me.
15
16
Brad Osuna
Brad Osuna
“Thanks again for the drinks. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”
“Well, it was very sweet of you,” she says as she walks toward the door,
looking at me over her shoulder and waving. “See you next time.”
She opens the door and walks out. The rain seems to be picking up again. I let
out a heavy sigh.
“Dammit!” I yell to no one as I throw my hand towel across the bar.
I allowed her to slip away again. Now I have to wait until, and hope
that, she comes back. My heart sinks back where it seems destined to be, the
place it’s been trying to escape from for months.
You don’t know how long I have wanted, to touch lips and hold you
tight. You don’t know how long I have waited, and I was going to tell you tonight. But the secret is still my own, and my love for you is still unknown.
Alone.
No. Not this time. I can’t stand the waiting and the thoughts of what
may or may not be. I am not going to be alone. Think of what could be. Happiness. I have to go to her.
I rush around the bar and across the floor. Shoving the door out of the
way, I scan the parking lot. A tall rusty streetlight, held upright by an eroding
cement block, is the only light source. It stands in the middle of the lot, emitting enough light to see the edges of the barren property and out to the quiet
street ahead. A silver pickup, the only vehicle present, is parked underneath the
pole. I become excited for a brief moment upon spotting it, but then my heart
falls. It’s the only car, and it’s Herschel’s.
I let out a heavy sigh, attempting to rid the emotional pain out of my
body. It fails, as it has for the past umpteenth months. My shoulders drop as I
turn around and head back inside. Back to stocking glasses and drunks. Back
to loneliness, depression, and the shred of hope left that things will eventually
improve.
I lift my head up, shifting my gaze from the ground to the door. It
is only when I do so do I notice headlights beaming onto the right side of the
building. The light reflects off the dumpsters the car sits next to, obstructing my
view of the driver. My chest becomes lighter as I jog over to the car.
As I come closer, the blinding reflection from the dumpsters dulls and the car
becomes clearer. A maroon BMW, covered in scratches, rust, and dents, rumbles in the parking spot. I approach the driver side door, and find a girl, approximately my age, with curly brown hair, leaning against the window with an
impatient expression. I have found her.
Upon seeing me, Mikaela smiles and waves. I return the gesture. My
palms sweat, my heart pulses, and my gut knots with anticipation as she opens
the door and exits the car. We stand three feet apart, but I want to be closer to
her, and wrap my arms around her. But first I must provide the spark to ignite
the fire.
“This damn engine sucks. When it starts, if it starts, I have to let it run
for a while so it doesn’t break down as soon as I put it in gear,” she says. “Am I
in your way? Am I blocking the dumpster?”
“No, no. I already took out the garbage,” I laugh. “I actually came out
here to talk to you.”
She’s maintaining a smile. Her blue eyes glow with optimism, for everything she has been through, everything she has told me, cannot hinder her
positive attitude.
“Well?”
Here I go.
“You’ve been coming here for a while now, and we’ve talked and
laughed about small and serious things alike. From what I’ve gathered from
those conversations, I just—I just think you are amazing. You are so beautiful,
and funny, and you understand me. We share a lot in common and have similar
backgrounds. I’d really like to get to know you even more. Whenever you come
into the bar, I forget every other customer is there. My focus is on you. Even
when I’m not at work, I look forward to seeing you again, but I know I only will
at work, which is why I wanted to ask for your number, and possibly a date.”
Wow, that was more than I expected myself to say. I’m looking into her stunning eyes, wondering what she is thinking. Her facial expression says it though:
her eyes look back into mine, her teeth shine, and her lips form a smile that
stretches from ear to ear.
“Thank you. No one has said things like that to me in a long time. Truth
is, I was actually out here debating whether or not to go back in and talk to you
about the same thing.”
With the sound of those words, my chest becomes as light as a feather.
My heart rate stays the same, only it beats now not out of anxiety, but out of a
feeling that has been absent from my life for too long.
Mikaela reaches into her car, fiddles around for something, and emerges with a piece of paper and a pen. Placing it on the hood of her car, she begins
to scribble seven numbers, the code to unlocking happiness again. She turns
around and places the paper in my hand, which have luckily stopped sweating,
but still quiver with that post-anxiety feeling I get. I glance at it: seven numbers
and a heart after the seventh. I look back up and into her blue eyes. My joy
overwhelms me, and I am speechless. She wraps her arms around me.
15
16
Brad Osuna
Ian J ones
P o rt r a i t o f J u n g l e l a n d
“Don’t take too long to call,” she whispers in my ear before letting go.
“Believe me, I won’t,” I respond, watching her as she enters her car. “Thank you, Mikaela.”
“Talk to you later!”
She closes the door and shifts the car in reverse. Before putting it in
drive, she gives me one last smile. I wave, and she drives off. This time upon
her departure, however, I am not uncertain, or in pain, or lonely. No. This time
when she leaves I think about when I’m going to call her, where we’ll go on a
date, and how much fun we’ll have. This time, I am happy.
I walk around toward the entrance, and remember Herschel’s truck
still sits underneath the light post. I can’t help but laugh as I run out to the
driver side door. His head rests on the steering wheel, and I can hear him snoring from outside. I tap on the window, and he jumps.
“Herschel, buddy, get out of the car.”
He stares at me with narrow eyes and reaches for the door handle. If I
wasn’t there to catch him, he would have fallen face first into the ground. I hold
him up, and I guide him toward the bar.
“Let’s get you a cab, buddy,” I say.
As of now, the biggest concern in my life is getting this drunken old
man a cab. The most threatening wave in the sea of my emotions has calmed.
The optimism in Mikaela’s eyes flows in my heart now. As we arrive at the door,
I look over my shoulder and notice it has stopped raining.
17
As the Rangers have a homecoming in Harlem
And as the Magic Rat drives his slick machine,
We sit in a pick-up,
Blaring the Boss at night.
I look at the old man,
Hair slowly turning black to grey.
His eyes glaze over
As the lawman chases the Rat and the girl,
And suddenly he looks younger:
’75, Vietnam, muscle cars and tobacco plants
Flood his mind.
Long passed memories are shown again
By a giant Exxon sign
That brings this fair city light.
As the Big Man begins his epic ballad on a brass sax,
Human interactions go silent
And only emotion prevails.
A portrait of memory becomes visible
In the speakers.
As two hearts beat beneath the city
And as the Rat’s own dream guns him down,
All I can do is sit and watch
As memories of a legendary time pass through the eyes of my father:
What poets cannot write but artists can paint
Tonight in Jungleland.
18
Brad Osuna
Ian J ones
P o rt r a i t o f J u n g l e l a n d
“Don’t take too long to call,” she whispers in my ear before letting go.
“Believe me, I won’t,” I respond, watching her as she enters her car. “Thank you, Mikaela.”
“Talk to you later!”
She closes the door and shifts the car in reverse. Before putting it in
drive, she gives me one last smile. I wave, and she drives off. This time upon
her departure, however, I am not uncertain, or in pain, or lonely. No. This time
when she leaves I think about when I’m going to call her, where we’ll go on a
date, and how much fun we’ll have. This time, I am happy.
I walk around toward the entrance, and remember Herschel’s truck
still sits underneath the light post. I can’t help but laugh as I run out to the
driver side door. His head rests on the steering wheel, and I can hear him snoring from outside. I tap on the window, and he jumps.
“Herschel, buddy, get out of the car.”
He stares at me with narrow eyes and reaches for the door handle. If I
wasn’t there to catch him, he would have fallen face first into the ground. I hold
him up, and I guide him toward the bar.
“Let’s get you a cab, buddy,” I say.
As of now, the biggest concern in my life is getting this drunken old
man a cab. The most threatening wave in the sea of my emotions has calmed.
The optimism in Mikaela’s eyes flows in my heart now. As we arrive at the door,
I look over my shoulder and notice it has stopped raining.
17
As the Rangers have a homecoming in Harlem
And as the Magic Rat drives his slick machine,
We sit in a pick-up,
Blaring the Boss at night.
I look at the old man,
Hair slowly turning black to grey.
His eyes glaze over
As the lawman chases the Rat and the girl,
And suddenly he looks younger:
’75, Vietnam, muscle cars and tobacco plants
Flood his mind.
Long passed memories are shown again
By a giant Exxon sign
That brings this fair city light.
As the Big Man begins his epic ballad on a brass sax,
Human interactions go silent
And only emotion prevails.
A portrait of memory becomes visible
In the speakers.
As two hearts beat beneath the city
And as the Rat’s own dream guns him down,
All I can do is sit and watch
As memories of a legendary time pass through the eyes of my father:
What poets cannot write but artists can paint
Tonight in Jungleland.
18
J u s t in Ho b i ng
col in shimro c k
B e f o r e t h e Fa l l
The reflection of masculinity
Is an armor I wear, but underneath
Cracks in the mirror show insanity.
Golden apples hang on limbs of my tree,
Fruits of hard labor, testosterone’s treat,
The reflection of masculinity.
But my fat folds over most certainly.
One too many harvests chose I to reap.
Cracks in the mirror show insanity.
Sometimes I am god of reality,
A warrior champion, strong as Hercules,
The reflection of masculinity.
I find innocents who want to live free,
Feed on their friendships, a cursed vampire leech.
Cracks in the mirror show insanity.
Of all the problems that keep plaguing me
There is one demon I cannot defeat.
The reflection of masculinity
Cracks. In the mirror shows insanity.
19
20
J u s t in Ho b i ng
col in shimro c k
B e f o r e t h e Fa l l
The reflection of masculinity
Is an armor I wear, but underneath
Cracks in the mirror show insanity.
Golden apples hang on limbs of my tree,
Fruits of hard labor, testosterone’s treat,
The reflection of masculinity.
But my fat folds over most certainly.
One too many harvests chose I to reap.
Cracks in the mirror show insanity.
Sometimes I am god of reality,
A warrior champion, strong as Hercules,
The reflection of masculinity.
I find innocents who want to live free,
Feed on their friendships, a cursed vampire leech.
Cracks in the mirror show insanity.
Of all the problems that keep plaguing me
There is one demon I cannot defeat.
The reflection of masculinity
Cracks. In the mirror shows insanity.
19
20
Na than Ha b erthy
D e v i l ’ s A dvo c at e
The air sat heavy against my chest. It was infused with the stale
aroma of moth-balls.
Shapes and shadows can barely be depicted on this summer night,
locked away in the transfixed room of the attic and completely forgotten to
the owners of this deteriorating plantation home. Until tonight, when the
clock strikes two, will this darkened world dive only deeper into the depths
of hell and her wonders. A clandestine religion held closely to the bosom of
Mother Peril and devised through the skinless fingers of Father Misery is about
to be reinstated for the yearly sermon. Dong! Dong! The withered space of
time has passed, marking the commencement of the ceremony.
A hue sparkles across the static room! Its golden eye searches for the
charred wicks of his brothers. This small flame floats across the black expanse
of the dark room. At last it touches down softly to the floor and one by one it
multiplies rapidly throughout the center of this dingy attic. Soon the creamy
glow of white candles cast their presence into the air. These candles aren’t
pure of color, but somehow stained with dust and wear. All are perfect but
none alike. Each has a personality, each a shape, and each a size. This city of
candles is arranges into two hemispheres where both cradle the center like the
piercing nail of a crescent moon. However, these wax figurines aren’t alone
for a ring of antique mirrors accompanies them on this exceptional night.
Surrounded by floral frames, these glossy faces shimmer with the hope that
tonight’s magic will be appeased. Laden and framed from polished metals,
these pools of glass reflect the ever-watchful acolyte. In fact, the first cloaked
silhouette hastens in-between the gleaming collection of grimy candles and
begins to draw along the floor. The wooden floor boards creak in excitement
as a drawn line runs on their sooty planks. This substance is a gritty chalk. A
powdery pastel of triangles is swiftly outlined by the formless figure. One can
comfortably tell that the image illustrated is a star. Not any old star, but one
specifically with five points: a pentagram.
Without warning, a rugged squawk breaks the silence. A barrage of
desperate clucks emerge from the sackcloth pouch gripped by the hooded being. Slithering down from the arched beams, a rope is becomes taut. Promptly,
a mangy fowl is jerked from the bag and tied by the scaly feet to the rope. It is
a plucked hen. Scrawny and naked to the flesh. Her only dignity being the few
21
Nat han Habe rthy
velvet, black feathers jutting out from her neck and ruffled tail. The little beady
eyes blink sharply in hopes this is all a dream. The ritual is at its height.
Harmonious chanting echoes among the rafters, and the pallid drippings of waxy candles trickle down upon the copper insects who pass to watch.
The incantations swell with horror and might. As if according to plan, the hen
sways in motion like the pendulum hanging from the nearby clock. Suddenly, our
cloaked disciple dashes about the room idolizing pieces of this bizarre worship: a
bleached goat skull, translucent jars filled with gelatinous brains, wispy tufts of
sun-dried herbs, and books complete with crackled pages. Finally, the figure ends
with a tongue of spells and relics are tossed sporadically across the chalky star. A
deafening pause floods the room and step by step the human form draws closer to
the chattering hen. While warbling for her life, she is hushed with a stony blade,
clasped tightly by the conjurer. Systematically, the candles mute their lights and the
sheen of the ink feathers, glittered with blues and emeralds, dances off the puddle
of thick ruby red. Another night, another sacrifice, another devilish art restored.
22
Na than Ha b erthy
D e v i l ’ s A dvo c at e
The air sat heavy against my chest. It was infused with the stale
aroma of moth-balls.
Shapes and shadows can barely be depicted on this summer night,
locked away in the transfixed room of the attic and completely forgotten to
the owners of this deteriorating plantation home. Until tonight, when the
clock strikes two, will this darkened world dive only deeper into the depths
of hell and her wonders. A clandestine religion held closely to the bosom of
Mother Peril and devised through the skinless fingers of Father Misery is about
to be reinstated for the yearly sermon. Dong! Dong! The withered space of
time has passed, marking the commencement of the ceremony.
A hue sparkles across the static room! Its golden eye searches for the
charred wicks of his brothers. This small flame floats across the black expanse
of the dark room. At last it touches down softly to the floor and one by one it
multiplies rapidly throughout the center of this dingy attic. Soon the creamy
glow of white candles cast their presence into the air. These candles aren’t
pure of color, but somehow stained with dust and wear. All are perfect but
none alike. Each has a personality, each a shape, and each a size. This city of
candles is arranges into two hemispheres where both cradle the center like the
piercing nail of a crescent moon. However, these wax figurines aren’t alone
for a ring of antique mirrors accompanies them on this exceptional night.
Surrounded by floral frames, these glossy faces shimmer with the hope that
tonight’s magic will be appeased. Laden and framed from polished metals,
these pools of glass reflect the ever-watchful acolyte. In fact, the first cloaked
silhouette hastens in-between the gleaming collection of grimy candles and
begins to draw along the floor. The wooden floor boards creak in excitement
as a drawn line runs on their sooty planks. This substance is a gritty chalk. A
powdery pastel of triangles is swiftly outlined by the formless figure. One can
comfortably tell that the image illustrated is a star. Not any old star, but one
specifically with five points: a pentagram.
Without warning, a rugged squawk breaks the silence. A barrage of
desperate clucks emerge from the sackcloth pouch gripped by the hooded being. Slithering down from the arched beams, a rope is becomes taut. Promptly,
a mangy fowl is jerked from the bag and tied by the scaly feet to the rope. It is
a plucked hen. Scrawny and naked to the flesh. Her only dignity being the few
21
Nat han Habe rthy
velvet, black feathers jutting out from her neck and ruffled tail. The little beady
eyes blink sharply in hopes this is all a dream. The ritual is at its height.
Harmonious chanting echoes among the rafters, and the pallid drippings of waxy candles trickle down upon the copper insects who pass to watch.
The incantations swell with horror and might. As if according to plan, the hen
sways in motion like the pendulum hanging from the nearby clock. Suddenly, our
cloaked disciple dashes about the room idolizing pieces of this bizarre worship: a
bleached goat skull, translucent jars filled with gelatinous brains, wispy tufts of
sun-dried herbs, and books complete with crackled pages. Finally, the figure ends
with a tongue of spells and relics are tossed sporadically across the chalky star. A
deafening pause floods the room and step by step the human form draws closer to
the chattering hen. While warbling for her life, she is hushed with a stony blade,
clasped tightly by the conjurer. Systematically, the candles mute their lights and the
sheen of the ink feathers, glittered with blues and emeralds, dances off the puddle
of thick ruby red. Another night, another sacrifice, another devilish art restored.
22
gra ha m Ha ehn le
Pat rick Mc Fadden
Yo u r Lov e
Your love, be my island, my light upon
Darkness, blackness drowning deep, deep floodgates.
Heartbeat, bloodbeat, lovebeat; my warm crimson
Blood flows, chanting siren songs of our fates.
Your love, be my island, my own bright light
Beaming brilliantly a divine shoreline.
Beauty, that of angles sacred in flight,
Compares to us as our lives intertwine.
Your love, be my island, my night North Star,
Forever following footsteps taken
Along my sole journey, one long and far.
Fire lies within me, evermore awakened.
Your love, be my island, my own homeland
23
Until the Earth lay as nothing but sand.
24
gra ha m Ha ehn le
Pat rick Mc Fadden
Yo u r Lov e
Your love, be my island, my light upon
Darkness, blackness drowning deep, deep floodgates.
Heartbeat, bloodbeat, lovebeat; my warm crimson
Blood flows, chanting siren songs of our fates.
Your love, be my island, my own bright light
Beaming brilliantly a divine shoreline.
Beauty, that of angles sacred in flight,
Compares to us as our lives intertwine.
Your love, be my island, my night North Star,
Forever following footsteps taken
Along my sole journey, one long and far.
Fire lies within me, evermore awakened.
Your love, be my island, my own homeland
23
Until the Earth lay as nothing but sand.
24
W ill Hof f er
All Things Must Die
graham Haeh nle
All things must die.
If life truly would be a brief candle,
Then its fleeting flame is snuffed out.
No creature can cavort immortally,
The claim of life gives becomes a gem to lose—
And time relentlessly will plan its heist.
So then, are we really living out life,
As thus our optimistic outlook claims,
Or commenced at conception, do we slowly die?
Now think, upon the days you’ve gone and “died” through—
The struggles borne, the champion-crowning moments,
All byproducts of returning to dust?
We fall, we rise, and then we learn to love:
Our life the chance to set the world on fire.
All things must die—but not before they’ve lived.
25
26
W ill Hof f er
All Things Must Die
graham Haeh nle
All things must die.
If life truly would be a brief candle,
Then its fleeting flame is snuffed out.
No creature can cavort immortally,
The claim of life gives becomes a gem to lose—
And time relentlessly will plan its heist.
So then, are we really living out life,
As thus our optimistic outlook claims,
Or commenced at conception, do we slowly die?
Now think, upon the days you’ve gone and “died” through—
The struggles borne, the champion-crowning moments,
All byproducts of returning to dust?
We fall, we rise, and then we learn to love:
Our life the chance to set the world on fire.
All things must die—but not before they’ve lived.
25
26
Na than Ha b erthy
Brad Os u na
A n E m b ro i d e r e d Pa i n
S e pa r at e C h e c k s
Checkered calico was firmly pleated,
The diner at the corner of Main and Lincoln contained few cars in
the run-down parking lot. Joanne pulled in between the yellow lines next to
the rusty dumpster that was stockpiled with black garbage bags. She exited
her blue Ford Taurus and walked across the lot, stepping over weeds, broken
glass, and cigarette butts. She pulled the glass doors open, entered the diner,
and looked around. A trucker sat on a stool alone at the counter. Every padded
booth was empty except for the third one by the window facing Main. The
booth held a man, who stared out the window.
“Michael!” Joanne exclaimed as she ran over to him.
He did not stand up, but merely turned to look at her.
“Hey,” he nonchalantly greeted.
Joanne wrapped her arms around him, kissed his cheek, and sat down
on the opposite side. The waitress, a middle-aged woman, approached the
table.
“Hi, hun. What’ll it be?” she asked, taking out her notepad.
“Just a coffee. Extra cream, please,” Joanne responded.
“Comin’ right up,” the waitress said, walking away.
“Sorry I’m a little late,” Joanne started, putting her purse next to
her. “I just got outta class at, like, one. My professor kept rambling on. I hope
you’re not mad, babe.”
“No, I’m not,” Michael said, eyes focusing on the table.
“Okay, good!” Joanne said with a smile. She sat supporting her head
with a fist, gazing deeply at Michael. “How’s your day been, cutie pie?”
“Alright, I guess,” Michael responded, still staring downwards.
The waitress approached the table with a white cup, steam rising
from the brim.
“Thank you,” Joanne said. The waitress left. She turned her attention back to Michael. “I’m glad you texted me. I haven’t seen you in forever. I
missed you so much.”
“Yeah,” Michael said. He stirred his coffee.
“You alright? You don’t seem happy. Sure you’re not mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“Good. What did you do today?”
“Nothin’ much. Just watched TV and played Grand Theft Auto,” Michael said, still staring at his coffee.
“You do love your games,” Joanne laughed. “Next time I come over,
Scratchy folds of chiffon placed into sheets.
Gray bins of cloth were picked through and weeded.
Soft fabrics glistened like fat purple beets,
Rippled forth like the pure cream from frothed milk.
Needles plucked and buttons were fastened quick,
Egyptian cottons were spun into silk.
Seamstress hurried to serve her master’s click.
Tiresome of tedious trudging days,
Having no cares her framework becomes frayed.
Sanity tears and thought withers away,
What a lost hope for a scullery maid.
Horrific, haughty laughs haunt her, forlorn,
While job clerks dash smiles coated in scorn.
27
28
Na than Ha b erthy
Brad Os u na
A n E m b ro i d e r e d Pa i n
S e pa r at e C h e c k s
Checkered calico was firmly pleated,
The diner at the corner of Main and Lincoln contained few cars in
the run-down parking lot. Joanne pulled in between the yellow lines next to
the rusty dumpster that was stockpiled with black garbage bags. She exited
her blue Ford Taurus and walked across the lot, stepping over weeds, broken
glass, and cigarette butts. She pulled the glass doors open, entered the diner,
and looked around. A trucker sat on a stool alone at the counter. Every padded
booth was empty except for the third one by the window facing Main. The
booth held a man, who stared out the window.
“Michael!” Joanne exclaimed as she ran over to him.
He did not stand up, but merely turned to look at her.
“Hey,” he nonchalantly greeted.
Joanne wrapped her arms around him, kissed his cheek, and sat down
on the opposite side. The waitress, a middle-aged woman, approached the
table.
“Hi, hun. What’ll it be?” she asked, taking out her notepad.
“Just a coffee. Extra cream, please,” Joanne responded.
“Comin’ right up,” the waitress said, walking away.
“Sorry I’m a little late,” Joanne started, putting her purse next to
her. “I just got outta class at, like, one. My professor kept rambling on. I hope
you’re not mad, babe.”
“No, I’m not,” Michael said, eyes focusing on the table.
“Okay, good!” Joanne said with a smile. She sat supporting her head
with a fist, gazing deeply at Michael. “How’s your day been, cutie pie?”
“Alright, I guess,” Michael responded, still staring downwards.
The waitress approached the table with a white cup, steam rising
from the brim.
“Thank you,” Joanne said. The waitress left. She turned her attention back to Michael. “I’m glad you texted me. I haven’t seen you in forever. I
missed you so much.”
“Yeah,” Michael said. He stirred his coffee.
“You alright? You don’t seem happy. Sure you’re not mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“Good. What did you do today?”
“Nothin’ much. Just watched TV and played Grand Theft Auto,” Michael said, still staring at his coffee.
“You do love your games,” Joanne laughed. “Next time I come over,
Scratchy folds of chiffon placed into sheets.
Gray bins of cloth were picked through and weeded.
Soft fabrics glistened like fat purple beets,
Rippled forth like the pure cream from frothed milk.
Needles plucked and buttons were fastened quick,
Egyptian cottons were spun into silk.
Seamstress hurried to serve her master’s click.
Tiresome of tedious trudging days,
Having no cares her framework becomes frayed.
Sanity tears and thought withers away,
What a lost hope for a scullery maid.
Horrific, haughty laughs haunt her, forlorn,
While job clerks dash smiles coated in scorn.
27
28
B ra d Os un a
Brad Os u na
you gotta teach me how to play that!”
“Yeah, next time,” Michael sighed.
“When will that be? I was thinking Saturday, since I don’t have class,
and you’re off for once, thank God. Maybe we can go to dinner and then go
back to your apartment.”
Michael didn’t respond, but shifted his gaze out the window toward
the passing cars.
“Or if you want, we could see a movie and then we could—”
“I have something to tell you,” Michael interrupted.
The smile faded from Joanne’s face. Michael was still looking out the
window.
“Is it bad?”
A tear escaped Michael’s eyes, which remained in a gaze out the window.
“Aw, babe,” Joanne said as she grabbed his hands. “It’ll be okay. You
can tell me.”
He immediately withdrew his hands from her loving grip as he finally
looked her in the eyes.
“These last three years have been some of the best times I’ve had in
my entire life. We’ve been through so much. But, lately... I don’t know. We’ve
been in a rut for a while now—”
“Michael, we have been in plenty of ruts. If you think we’re in one,
we’ll work toward it and get through it, just like the others.”
“This one is different. I just don’t feel like we’re connecting anymore. I mean, yes, we’ve tried in the past and it’s worked, but still.”
“We can’t give up, Michael! We have come too far to let each other
go. We’re going to get married and have children and live wonderful lives, like
we always said we would!”
“I just don’t see it working out.”
There was a pause. Joanne’s smile faded away. Sad, burning tears
filled her eyes.
“There’s someone else, isn’t there Michael?” she managed to say.
Another pause. Michael turned his head toward the window as more
tears began to fall.
“Michael?!” Joanne cried.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do this to you. I love you, Joanne,
but—”
“If you truly loved me,” she started, holding back the emotional meltdown brewing inside her, “we wouldn’t be here in the first place. If you loved
me, we could talk it over and work it out.”
“I do love you, I just—”
“Ran to some other girl and threw me aside?”
He remained silent.
“We can still work this out, Michael.”
“I don’t want to. I’m tired of trying to work it out and always ending
up back in a rut. I’m sorry, Joanne. Please forgive me. I love you, but I can’t
do this anymore.”
Joanne rested her head in her hands and began to sob.
The waitress, aware of the situation, approached hesitantly.
“Guys, this on one check?” the waitress asked.
Michael looked at Joanne.
“Separate,” he said as he laid down a ten-dollar bill and walked out of
the restaurant.
29
30
B ra d Os un a
Brad Os u na
you gotta teach me how to play that!”
“Yeah, next time,” Michael sighed.
“When will that be? I was thinking Saturday, since I don’t have class,
and you’re off for once, thank God. Maybe we can go to dinner and then go
back to your apartment.”
Michael didn’t respond, but shifted his gaze out the window toward
the passing cars.
“Or if you want, we could see a movie and then we could—”
“I have something to tell you,” Michael interrupted.
The smile faded from Joanne’s face. Michael was still looking out the
window.
“Is it bad?”
A tear escaped Michael’s eyes, which remained in a gaze out the window.
“Aw, babe,” Joanne said as she grabbed his hands. “It’ll be okay. You
can tell me.”
He immediately withdrew his hands from her loving grip as he finally
looked her in the eyes.
“These last three years have been some of the best times I’ve had in
my entire life. We’ve been through so much. But, lately... I don’t know. We’ve
been in a rut for a while now—”
“Michael, we have been in plenty of ruts. If you think we’re in one,
we’ll work toward it and get through it, just like the others.”
“This one is different. I just don’t feel like we’re connecting anymore. I mean, yes, we’ve tried in the past and it’s worked, but still.”
“We can’t give up, Michael! We have come too far to let each other
go. We’re going to get married and have children and live wonderful lives, like
we always said we would!”
“I just don’t see it working out.”
There was a pause. Joanne’s smile faded away. Sad, burning tears
filled her eyes.
“There’s someone else, isn’t there Michael?” she managed to say.
Another pause. Michael turned his head toward the window as more
tears began to fall.
“Michael?!” Joanne cried.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do this to you. I love you, Joanne,
but—”
“If you truly loved me,” she started, holding back the emotional meltdown brewing inside her, “we wouldn’t be here in the first place. If you loved
me, we could talk it over and work it out.”
“I do love you, I just—”
“Ran to some other girl and threw me aside?”
He remained silent.
“We can still work this out, Michael.”
“I don’t want to. I’m tired of trying to work it out and always ending
up back in a rut. I’m sorry, Joanne. Please forgive me. I love you, but I can’t
do this anymore.”
Joanne rested her head in her hands and began to sob.
The waitress, aware of the situation, approached hesitantly.
“Guys, this on one check?” the waitress asked.
Michael looked at Joanne.
“Separate,” he said as he laid down a ten-dollar bill and walked out of
the restaurant.
29
30
Ben weibel
B a rry Herb ers
Curi
“The Alien Enthusiastically Explores the Planet’s Surface”
Two black semicircles floating in each eye socket, one elastic rod
attached to either shoulder, three rubber twigs extending from both hands and
one large balloon sitting atop a solitary neck, the alien —Curi —descended to
Earth. From behind the safety of his vessel’s walls, the extraterrestrial fellow
surveyed the area, his eyes lighting up as he perceived the intricately woven
brown and green appendages of the nearby objects; this would be a terrific
location for his first analytical excursion upon the newly discovered planet.
Hours of work were spent polishing his “Zaktra”-brand spacecraft
glistening through the expanding clouds of smoke. Curi stepped out of his
saucer-shaped vehicle. He quietly stepped toward a particularly enormous
brown tower and eagerly slid his fingers across the tower’s surface, committing
the coarseness to memory. He followed the odd structure’s skin downward,
noticing the thousands of much smaller green blades beneath his body erupting
forth from the same base as the tower. As Curi finished moving his hand down
to the base, his fingers were cushioned by a deep brown mush which appeared
to make up the entire surface from which both the green and brown objects
protruded. Upon performing a similar cursory examination on a collection of
green circles suspended in the air by an intricate web of gray shafts, Curi jovially
concluded that all of these curious objects needed the mysterious “brown mush”
in order to function.
Curi spent the next several weeks happily studying as many of the
mush-affixed structures as he could find, but eventually the time came for him
to depart. As was usually the case, Curi was satisfied with his wealth of new
discoveries, but still a bit sad he wouldn’t be able to continue his research
on this particular planet. Curi decided to keep one small souvenir from this
excursion, so he plucked the stem of a specimen from his favorite category of
his interesting findings, a green stalk with beautiful crimson discs at its peak.
Curi, his objective fulfilled, stepped back aboard his well-polished
spacecraft and ascended once again into the stars, never planning to return.
31
32
Ben weibel
B a rry Herb ers
Curi
“The Alien Enthusiastically Explores the Planet’s Surface”
Two black semicircles floating in each eye socket, one elastic rod
attached to either shoulder, three rubber twigs extending from both hands and
one large balloon sitting atop a solitary neck, the alien —Curi —descended to
Earth. From behind the safety of his vessel’s walls, the extraterrestrial fellow
surveyed the area, his eyes lighting up as he perceived the intricately woven
brown and green appendages of the nearby objects; this would be a terrific
location for his first analytical excursion upon the newly discovered planet.
Hours of work were spent polishing his “Zaktra”-brand spacecraft
glistening through the expanding clouds of smoke. Curi stepped out of his
saucer-shaped vehicle. He quietly stepped toward a particularly enormous
brown tower and eagerly slid his fingers across the tower’s surface, committing
the coarseness to memory. He followed the odd structure’s skin downward,
noticing the thousands of much smaller green blades beneath his body erupting
forth from the same base as the tower. As Curi finished moving his hand down
to the base, his fingers were cushioned by a deep brown mush which appeared
to make up the entire surface from which both the green and brown objects
protruded. Upon performing a similar cursory examination on a collection of
green circles suspended in the air by an intricate web of gray shafts, Curi jovially
concluded that all of these curious objects needed the mysterious “brown mush”
in order to function.
Curi spent the next several weeks happily studying as many of the
mush-affixed structures as he could find, but eventually the time came for him
to depart. As was usually the case, Curi was satisfied with his wealth of new
discoveries, but still a bit sad he wouldn’t be able to continue his research
on this particular planet. Curi decided to keep one small souvenir from this
excursion, so he plucked the stem of a specimen from his favorite category of
his interesting findings, a green stalk with beautiful crimson discs at its peak.
Curi, his objective fulfilled, stepped back aboard his well-polished
spacecraft and ascended once again into the stars, never planning to return.
31
32
Jake Winans
Jake Winans
Ever since the moment I sent that text, I had my phone
clenched in my right hand. I’d check it every two minutes, even if it
didn’t ring. Sometimes I was positive she was going to text me back,
but there were other times when I was certain she’d never even consider getting back to me. It wasn’t until about five minutes into pro
wrestling, when a yellow message icon labeled with her name finally
popped op in my phone’s screen.
I was ecstatic and petrified at the same time. Mixed emotions
started to rush into my heart: excitement, anxiety, fear, and joy. I felt
like I was on cloud nine, but then I suddenly began to feel sick to my
stomach, all in the span of five seconds. I wanted to figure out what
was going on with me, but there was no time; I had to take the opportunity I’d been given.
I hastily mashed my index finger on the message icon over and
over again, finally opening her message. Somehow the words, **Sorry I took a while 2 get back 2 u. Ive been really busy the past few days. What’s up?** made my
night. I’d been waiting for this moment the entire week, and I wasn’t
going to let it slip away. I quickly replied, **It’s cool...can i
ask u somethin?**
The moment I pressed the send button, it all started again the
raging emotions, the pressure, and seconds seemed to become hours.
I started to squeeze the leather arm of my chair, hoping that it would
somehow soothe my fluctuating emotions. To my relief, she replied
about a minute later saying, **Go ahead.**
There was no turning back now; I had to go through with it.
The only problem was I had no clue how to approach the situation.
Should I try to play it cool? Should I go for the romantic approach and
pour out all my feelings at once? Should I just ask?
With the clock ticking, I immediately started typing the first
few things that came to my mind. The text eventually came out as
something like this, **Im sorry if this sounds weird or
something, but i think ur really cute, really
nice & really funny. Ive always kinda liked u,
so i was wonderin if u liked me back.**
I turned the TV off the moment I sent the text. My eyes became attached to my phone screen; her reply was the only thing I could
think about. I sat on the couch and mumbled prayers to myself for about
five minutes, anxiously bouncing my right knee and irritably scratching the sofa’s leather the entire time. Still no reply. I desperately paced
in circles for ten minutes, hoping to speed up the clock that I couldn’t
seem to stop glancing at. Still no reply. I’d lost all hope. I knew if she
didn’t reply to that text, it was basically a nice way of saying no.
Defeated, I flopped back on the couch, only to be greeted with
my phone showing me a message icon. I opened her message as fast as I
could, hoping to see the word “yes” inside. To my dismay, all it said was,
**U still there?**
*****
It was the first Friday of June. School had just gotten out a few
days ago and my parents were out for the night. While most thirteenyear-old boys would see this as a golden opportunity to throw a wild
party, watch R-rated movies, or eat endless amounts of ice cream; I
simply saw it as a chance to watch professional wrestling on the highdefinition TV downstairs. My golden, buttery popcorn was popped, the
TV was working perfectly, and the black, soft recliner chair was empty.
It seemed like it was going to be a perfect evening.
The fact that I was alone on a Friday night didn’t bother me at
all; I was just glad that seventh grade was finally over. However, there
was one thing I learned in seventh grade that I’d never forget: not all
O n e Lo s t M e s s ag e
33
34
Jake Winans
Jake Winans
Ever since the moment I sent that text, I had my phone
clenched in my right hand. I’d check it every two minutes, even if it
didn’t ring. Sometimes I was positive she was going to text me back,
but there were other times when I was certain she’d never even consider getting back to me. It wasn’t until about five minutes into pro
wrestling, when a yellow message icon labeled with her name finally
popped op in my phone’s screen.
I was ecstatic and petrified at the same time. Mixed emotions
started to rush into my heart: excitement, anxiety, fear, and joy. I felt
like I was on cloud nine, but then I suddenly began to feel sick to my
stomach, all in the span of five seconds. I wanted to figure out what
was going on with me, but there was no time; I had to take the opportunity I’d been given.
I hastily mashed my index finger on the message icon over and
over again, finally opening her message. Somehow the words, **Sorry I took a while 2 get back 2 u. Ive been really busy the past few days. What’s up?** made my
night. I’d been waiting for this moment the entire week, and I wasn’t
going to let it slip away. I quickly replied, **It’s cool...can i
ask u somethin?**
The moment I pressed the send button, it all started again the
raging emotions, the pressure, and seconds seemed to become hours.
I started to squeeze the leather arm of my chair, hoping that it would
somehow soothe my fluctuating emotions. To my relief, she replied
about a minute later saying, **Go ahead.**
There was no turning back now; I had to go through with it.
The only problem was I had no clue how to approach the situation.
Should I try to play it cool? Should I go for the romantic approach and
pour out all my feelings at once? Should I just ask?
With the clock ticking, I immediately started typing the first
few things that came to my mind. The text eventually came out as
something like this, **Im sorry if this sounds weird or
something, but i think ur really cute, really
nice & really funny. Ive always kinda liked u,
so i was wonderin if u liked me back.**
I turned the TV off the moment I sent the text. My eyes became attached to my phone screen; her reply was the only thing I could
think about. I sat on the couch and mumbled prayers to myself for about
five minutes, anxiously bouncing my right knee and irritably scratching the sofa’s leather the entire time. Still no reply. I desperately paced
in circles for ten minutes, hoping to speed up the clock that I couldn’t
seem to stop glancing at. Still no reply. I’d lost all hope. I knew if she
didn’t reply to that text, it was basically a nice way of saying no.
Defeated, I flopped back on the couch, only to be greeted with
my phone showing me a message icon. I opened her message as fast as I
could, hoping to see the word “yes” inside. To my dismay, all it said was,
**U still there?**
*****
It was the first Friday of June. School had just gotten out a few
days ago and my parents were out for the night. While most thirteenyear-old boys would see this as a golden opportunity to throw a wild
party, watch R-rated movies, or eat endless amounts of ice cream; I
simply saw it as a chance to watch professional wrestling on the highdefinition TV downstairs. My golden, buttery popcorn was popped, the
TV was working perfectly, and the black, soft recliner chair was empty.
It seemed like it was going to be a perfect evening.
The fact that I was alone on a Friday night didn’t bother me at
all; I was just glad that seventh grade was finally over. However, there
was one thing I learned in seventh grade that I’d never forget: not all
O n e Lo s t M e s s ag e
33
34
Jake Winans
Jake Winans
girls are “icky.” Actually, there were two girls in particular I thought
were far from “icky.”
The first was a girl by the name of AJ Lee, the lovely new addition to World Wrestling Entertainment’s female roster. She stood at
a beautiful 4’11, had long, wavy, black hair, and had a gorgeous smile
that made my heart melt. She had just made her debut last week, but I
knew we were meant to be. The only problem was that she was about
six years older than I was.
The second girl was a bit closer to my age. In fact, she was a
classmate of mine. I’d know her since fifth grade, but it wasn’t until
seventh grade when I actually started to notice her. I didn’t fall headover-heels for her or anything like that; I just started to realize that I
felt a bit “different” whenever I was around her. Maybe it was because
she was my science partner, maybe it was because I thought she had
a cute laugh, or maybe it was because she was one of the few girls in
school who actually was nice to me. Whenever she and I would have to
work on a lab together, I could never seem to speak properly. I’d just
sit there and nod as she did everything for us. I always wanted to help
her out, but whenever she would make eye contact with me, I would
suddenly forget what I wanted to say and anxiously stutter. I just never
knew what to say, what to do, or how to feel. Either way, she intrigued
me to say the least. In all honesty, she probably intrigued me a little too
much, considering I got a “C” in science both semesters.
Luckily, I managed to score a phone number on the last week
of school. The thing is, it wasn’t her number. Unfortunately, she didn’t
have her own cell phone at the time, so she had to text me from her
sister’s phone. Talk about romantic.
I sent her a text message a few days later informing her that I
was hoping to talk to her about something. Naturally, I was just hoping
to get a chance to tell her the way I really felt about her. There were
thirty-two girls in my grade, but she was the only one I was going to
truly miss over the summer, and I knew that had to mean something.
*****
35
**U still there?**
Shocked and confused, I replied, **Of course im still
here! Why would i ever leave u!?**
It only took her about a minute to reply, **Um, ok...u
just didnt text me back.**
At first I had no clue what she was talking about, then it hit
me...hard. I slowly made my way to the sent messages list on my
phone. I opened my confession, only to see the words “MESSAGE
SEND FAILURE” written in bold, red text at the top of it.
I couldn’t believe it. I was too flabbergasted to even know how
to respond, not to her text, but in general. I was furious, to say the
least. For the past few days, all I could think about was texting her. I
mustered up all my courage and tried to ask her out, only to have all
of my efforts thwarted by a message send failure! I was too frustrated
to attempt to send my message again. In fact, I just wanted to end the
conversation.
I tried my best to come up with a decent excuse to give her,
but the only thing that immediately came to mind was dinner, which
would buy me half an hour at best. I didn’t want her to think I had left,
so I just texted her the first thing that came to my mind:
**Sorry, but i g2g. My dog is havin some pretty
bad constipation @ the moment and i wanna make
sure hes ok Ttyl.**
I sat on the couch in silence for a few minutes, just thinking
and not moving an inch. I eventually decided to turn the TV back on,
36
Jake Winans
Jake Winans
girls are “icky.” Actually, there were two girls in particular I thought
were far from “icky.”
The first was a girl by the name of AJ Lee, the lovely new addition to World Wrestling Entertainment’s female roster. She stood at
a beautiful 4’11, had long, wavy, black hair, and had a gorgeous smile
that made my heart melt. She had just made her debut last week, but I
knew we were meant to be. The only problem was that she was about
six years older than I was.
The second girl was a bit closer to my age. In fact, she was a
classmate of mine. I’d know her since fifth grade, but it wasn’t until
seventh grade when I actually started to notice her. I didn’t fall headover-heels for her or anything like that; I just started to realize that I
felt a bit “different” whenever I was around her. Maybe it was because
she was my science partner, maybe it was because I thought she had
a cute laugh, or maybe it was because she was one of the few girls in
school who actually was nice to me. Whenever she and I would have to
work on a lab together, I could never seem to speak properly. I’d just
sit there and nod as she did everything for us. I always wanted to help
her out, but whenever she would make eye contact with me, I would
suddenly forget what I wanted to say and anxiously stutter. I just never
knew what to say, what to do, or how to feel. Either way, she intrigued
me to say the least. In all honesty, she probably intrigued me a little too
much, considering I got a “C” in science both semesters.
Luckily, I managed to score a phone number on the last week
of school. The thing is, it wasn’t her number. Unfortunately, she didn’t
have her own cell phone at the time, so she had to text me from her
sister’s phone. Talk about romantic.
I sent her a text message a few days later informing her that I
was hoping to talk to her about something. Naturally, I was just hoping
to get a chance to tell her the way I really felt about her. There were
thirty-two girls in my grade, but she was the only one I was going to
truly miss over the summer, and I knew that had to mean something.
*****
35
**U still there?**
Shocked and confused, I replied, **Of course im still
here! Why would i ever leave u!?**
It only took her about a minute to reply, **Um, ok...u
just didnt text me back.**
At first I had no clue what she was talking about, then it hit
me...hard. I slowly made my way to the sent messages list on my
phone. I opened my confession, only to see the words “MESSAGE
SEND FAILURE” written in bold, red text at the top of it.
I couldn’t believe it. I was too flabbergasted to even know how
to respond, not to her text, but in general. I was furious, to say the
least. For the past few days, all I could think about was texting her. I
mustered up all my courage and tried to ask her out, only to have all
of my efforts thwarted by a message send failure! I was too frustrated
to attempt to send my message again. In fact, I just wanted to end the
conversation.
I tried my best to come up with a decent excuse to give her,
but the only thing that immediately came to mind was dinner, which
would buy me half an hour at best. I didn’t want her to think I had left,
so I just texted her the first thing that came to my mind:
**Sorry, but i g2g. My dog is havin some pretty
bad constipation @ the moment and i wanna make
sure hes ok Ttyl.**
I sat on the couch in silence for a few minutes, just thinking
and not moving an inch. I eventually decided to turn the TV back on,
36
Jake Winans
Will Hoffer
Au t u m n ’ s H a r b i n g e r
hoping it would clear my thoughts. Luckily, my timing was perfect; AJ
was making her way down to the ring. I’d be lying if I said her cute new
ring gear didn’t cheer me up a bit. Before her match, there was a short
little video about how intensely she had trained, and how she was ready
to get her first win. Ironically, her opponent pinned her in less than
two minutes. Putting in all that work, only to get nowhere in the end. I
feel your pain, AJ.
37
The morning mist has kissed the blades of grass
that form the cool, collective forest-field
which gently yields under my soft shoe-step.
The silent song of chirping critters spreads
from soft enclaves of colored leaves above
my head—a greeting from a tree-covered grove,
where little rays of sunlight mix with shade
in the calm, cool stillness of the air below vast,
azure skies that even lofty trees reach out
to touch. Now, a tiny leaf begins its journey back
to Earth, spinning round its slightly brown
core with emboldened twirling of its golden
shape. While slowly, softly gliding from its gilded
home, through dancing galaxies of clustered
bugs, it alights on my outstretched palm. Three trident
prongs, not wrought by mortal hands, plunge
down from treetops, falling to the ground if not for
my open hand to catch it first—all to serve
as harbinger to Autumn’s coming days.
38
Jake Winans
Will Hoffer
Au t u m n ’ s H a r b i n g e r
hoping it would clear my thoughts. Luckily, my timing was perfect; AJ
was making her way down to the ring. I’d be lying if I said her cute new
ring gear didn’t cheer me up a bit. Before her match, there was a short
little video about how intensely she had trained, and how she was ready
to get her first win. Ironically, her opponent pinned her in less than
two minutes. Putting in all that work, only to get nowhere in the end. I
feel your pain, AJ.
37
The morning mist has kissed the blades of grass
that form the cool, collective forest-field
which gently yields under my soft shoe-step.
The silent song of chirping critters spreads
from soft enclaves of colored leaves above
my head—a greeting from a tree-covered grove,
where little rays of sunlight mix with shade
in the calm, cool stillness of the air below vast,
azure skies that even lofty trees reach out
to touch. Now, a tiny leaf begins its journey back
to Earth, spinning round its slightly brown
core with emboldened twirling of its golden
shape. While slowly, softly gliding from its gilded
home, through dancing galaxies of clustered
bugs, it alights on my outstretched palm. Three trident
prongs, not wrought by mortal hands, plunge
down from treetops, falling to the ground if not for
my open hand to catch it first—all to serve
as harbinger to Autumn’s coming days.
38
g ra ha m Ha ehn le
M ichael Ri c hart
O d e to a G l a s s E y e
O glorious hunk of hardware,
Lodged snugly into my cranium,
Not at all running the risk
Of slipping out and skipping across the floor.
From the time I slip into oblivion at midnight
To the daunting ringing of my morning alarm,
You stay at attention, open and alert,
Breathing new life into “Sleeping with one eye open.”
Your stubbornness to close suits me fine
When a quick nap in Algebra calls my name,
Simply shield the real eye from observation,
And the instructor still sees me observing. Classic.
And forever situated upon your façade,
Absorbent and yellow and porous is he,
That lovable little yellow lad,
Dictating for me your proper orientation.
You never disappoint in icebreakers
Or offering humorous stories,
For a unique attribute not held by many
Can prompt infinite sitcom like situations.
However entertaining your antics may be,
Your purpose remains constant and simple,
To emulate an illusion, like a chameleon
Hiding in order to fit reality.
First introduced into my life
When I was but a babe, battling the growths
That festered in both eyes,
One received care, the other was compromised.
39
40
g ra ha m Ha ehn le
M ichael Ri c hart
O d e to a G l a s s E y e
O glorious hunk of hardware,
Lodged snugly into my cranium,
Not at all running the risk
Of slipping out and skipping across the floor.
From the time I slip into oblivion at midnight
To the daunting ringing of my morning alarm,
You stay at attention, open and alert,
Breathing new life into “Sleeping with one eye open.”
Your stubbornness to close suits me fine
When a quick nap in Algebra calls my name,
Simply shield the real eye from observation,
And the instructor still sees me observing. Classic.
And forever situated upon your façade,
Absorbent and yellow and porous is he,
That lovable little yellow lad,
Dictating for me your proper orientation.
You never disappoint in icebreakers
Or offering humorous stories,
For a unique attribute not held by many
Can prompt infinite sitcom like situations.
However entertaining your antics may be,
Your purpose remains constant and simple,
To emulate an illusion, like a chameleon
Hiding in order to fit reality.
First introduced into my life
When I was but a babe, battling the growths
That festered in both eyes,
One received care, the other was compromised.
39
40
M ich a el Richa rt
J acob M ill er
Row i n g to T h e S ta rt
I always thought you were all right,
Never going out of your way to be a headache,
I was never one for the athletics of my peers,
But is that your fault, or simply a genetic lack of coordination?
Stand there, anxious. Contemplate the inevitable race
And all possible scenarios.
You look out at the water touched by the lingering fog.
The lake is quiet and calm as you wait wishing to delay it forever.
I always found thorough amusement
When analyzing pictures with one eye red and one blue.
And when the freshies rub my last nerve raw,
I just pick you a poke, and they flee for their lives.
Suddenly you’re out on the water, gliding through, breaking the stillness.
The reflection of the oars waves through the ripples on the way to the starting line.
The silence breaks only by the tearing of the oar blade through the water
And the grunts of your teammates behind you.
So for eighteen years, you’ve dutifully served,
Providing a perfect perception pretender,
For my instincts advise me to believe
An eye patch would draw even more bewilderment.
At the starting line you wait.
Sit with your arms extended out, gripping the handle and ready to pull.
Your nervousness builds as the adrenaline courses through your body.
The boats around you concentrate and sit ready.
Know the race will hurt.
Your arms will ache, the legs will be strained, and the muscles will scream to stop,
But your will won’t be broken.
And yet the silence before the start still builds.
41
42
M ich a el Richa rt
J acob M ill er
Row i n g to T h e S ta rt
I always thought you were all right,
Never going out of your way to be a headache,
I was never one for the athletics of my peers,
But is that your fault, or simply a genetic lack of coordination?
Stand there, anxious. Contemplate the inevitable race
And all possible scenarios.
You look out at the water touched by the lingering fog.
The lake is quiet and calm as you wait wishing to delay it forever.
I always found thorough amusement
When analyzing pictures with one eye red and one blue.
And when the freshies rub my last nerve raw,
I just pick you a poke, and they flee for their lives.
Suddenly you’re out on the water, gliding through, breaking the stillness.
The reflection of the oars waves through the ripples on the way to the starting line.
The silence breaks only by the tearing of the oar blade through the water
And the grunts of your teammates behind you.
So for eighteen years, you’ve dutifully served,
Providing a perfect perception pretender,
For my instincts advise me to believe
An eye patch would draw even more bewilderment.
At the starting line you wait.
Sit with your arms extended out, gripping the handle and ready to pull.
Your nervousness builds as the adrenaline courses through your body.
The boats around you concentrate and sit ready.
Know the race will hurt.
Your arms will ache, the legs will be strained, and the muscles will scream to stop,
But your will won’t be broken.
And yet the silence before the start still builds.
41
42
A ndrew K oury
And rew K o ury
Baby Steps
Exploration
Children scrawl lead into paper
like painted handprints on stone.
Their hands move carefully,
but then
slip as they lose their grip.
Frustrated, they storm off to recess.
He wrote a letter everyday
to keep his mind fresh,
to correspond with new people,
new views, and new ideas.
At college there were no more barriers.
He gripped the yellow stick with ease
and his writing flowed
without a care.
Purposes of a Pencil
Aristotle’s Children
At age 12 they must sway
men and women more than twice
their age. They must use the tools
of the Greeks to persuade.
Children pen arguments into paper,
hoping they will write
effective rhetoric.
To Prove Oneself
The man’s leg bounced up and down
like a fish struggling to breathe.
The college will read this
with cold objectivity.
His whole life distilled
into a few essays and report cards.
The pencil shivered in his hand.
He transformed himself into paper,
hoping for acceptance.
43
Facing Reality
He picked up the pencil and sighed.
He began to fill out forms, bills,
and expense reports.
He wrote proposals for work,
no time for hobbies.
He was his work now.
His pencil seemed exasperated
as he wrote with a heavy hand;
his empty words on the page.
Fulfillment
A tool of inspiration,
A mundane utility became an artist’s brush.
Nothing was beyond his grasp now.
Money was as far away from his mind
as the ground he was flying so high.
Short story after short story,
44
A ndrew K oury
And rew K o ury
Baby Steps
Exploration
Children scrawl lead into paper
like painted handprints on stone.
Their hands move carefully,
but then
slip as they lose their grip.
Frustrated, they storm off to recess.
He wrote a letter everyday
to keep his mind fresh,
to correspond with new people,
new views, and new ideas.
At college there were no more barriers.
He gripped the yellow stick with ease
and his writing flowed
without a care.
Purposes of a Pencil
Aristotle’s Children
At age 12 they must sway
men and women more than twice
their age. They must use the tools
of the Greeks to persuade.
Children pen arguments into paper,
hoping they will write
effective rhetoric.
To Prove Oneself
The man’s leg bounced up and down
like a fish struggling to breathe.
The college will read this
with cold objectivity.
His whole life distilled
into a few essays and report cards.
The pencil shivered in his hand.
He transformed himself into paper,
hoping for acceptance.
43
Facing Reality
He picked up the pencil and sighed.
He began to fill out forms, bills,
and expense reports.
He wrote proposals for work,
no time for hobbies.
He was his work now.
His pencil seemed exasperated
as he wrote with a heavy hand;
his empty words on the page.
Fulfillment
A tool of inspiration,
A mundane utility became an artist’s brush.
Nothing was beyond his grasp now.
Money was as far away from his mind
as the ground he was flying so high.
Short story after short story,
44
A ndre w K oury
graham Haehnle
publication after publication,
award after award.
The same tool he used to write his tales
autographed his books.
Goodbyes
He stared with apprehension
at the white blank page,
knowing full well this might
be the last thing he ever writes.
He felt the old chipped
and rugged feel
of his pencil.
He focused on the lawyer’s document,
his last gift,
as he imprinted himself into the page
for others to find.
45
46
A ndre w K oury
graham Haehnle
publication after publication,
award after award.
The same tool he used to write his tales
autographed his books.
Goodbyes
He stared with apprehension
at the white blank page,
knowing full well this might
be the last thing he ever writes.
He felt the old chipped
and rugged feel
of his pencil.
He focused on the lawyer’s document,
his last gift,
as he imprinted himself into the page
for others to find.
45
46
B enjamin B o rja
The New Americans
We once came to America,
The Land of the Free,
The United States,
the land of liberty.
We are from families
to foreign lands tied,
different colors and creeds,
far away and close by,
dreaming for success, but sustenance sufficed,
connected by struggle, rewarded through sacrifice
It became our country,
this place, our true home;
Even the once-bitter rivals
now together, joined and meshed;
salvation from oppression and death
Is our goal, is our test.
For our ancestors hoped for the best
That their children would become
Not just unwanted guests
But people part of, sometimes better, than the rest.
We recognize that we are blessed
Even though we aren’t the best dressed.
We are prepared to fight hard
To pass any test.
47
D ane M orey
T h e C o s t o f Fa m e
Christina rubbed her own hands together until they started to turn
bright red. She rocked back and forth on the cheap wobbly chair. Eying the
competition, she saw over thirty other young women were packed into the
small room. The room resembled one of the dance studios in which they
had spent countless hours. The dusty, wooden floor. The dry, musty smell.
Only two doors interrupted the plain walls. One led to the chaos of Fifth
Avenue, the other led deeper into the building. The girls were scattered
among the plastic chairs. Some girls were chatting quietly, others were
pacing, and others sat alone, staring at their feet. A few girls moved their
mouths in silence, frantically practicing their monologues one last time.
One girl glanced around the plain room, looking in dismay at the dozens of
other incredibly talented actresses, all trying to make it big in the big city.
A muffled voice seeped in from the other room, a voice which Christina
was all too familiar with. The voice started low, then rose in a gorgeous
crescendo, belting a beautifully bright E flat.
A young blonde girl sitting beside Christina leaned over and
whispered, “Who is that?”
Christina clenched her teeth and said, “Desiree Brookside.”
“Wow,” the girl replied, “she’s really good.”
“No she’s not!” Christina snapped.
“Oh, come on,” the girl said, “Don’t you hear her? Who can
compete with that?”
Christina rolled her eyes and said, “Shut up.”
Christina had never understood what people thought was so
special about Desiree. Christina had known Desiree practically her entire
life. They had both gone to the same school and were even in the same
grade. They had the same vocal instructor and went to the same dance
studio. And of course, they always auditioned for the same roles.
48
B enjamin B o rja
The New Americans
We once came to America,
The Land of the Free,
The United States,
the land of liberty.
We are from families
to foreign lands tied,
different colors and creeds,
far away and close by,
dreaming for success, but sustenance sufficed,
connected by struggle, rewarded through sacrifice
It became our country,
this place, our true home;
Even the once-bitter rivals
now together, joined and meshed;
salvation from oppression and death
Is our goal, is our test.
For our ancestors hoped for the best
That their children would become
Not just unwanted guests
But people part of, sometimes better, than the rest.
We recognize that we are blessed
Even though we aren’t the best dressed.
We are prepared to fight hard
To pass any test.
47
D ane M orey
T h e C o s t o f Fa m e
Christina rubbed her own hands together until they started to turn
bright red. She rocked back and forth on the cheap wobbly chair. Eying the
competition, she saw over thirty other young women were packed into the
small room. The room resembled one of the dance studios in which they
had spent countless hours. The dusty, wooden floor. The dry, musty smell.
Only two doors interrupted the plain walls. One led to the chaos of Fifth
Avenue, the other led deeper into the building. The girls were scattered
among the plastic chairs. Some girls were chatting quietly, others were
pacing, and others sat alone, staring at their feet. A few girls moved their
mouths in silence, frantically practicing their monologues one last time.
One girl glanced around the plain room, looking in dismay at the dozens of
other incredibly talented actresses, all trying to make it big in the big city.
A muffled voice seeped in from the other room, a voice which Christina
was all too familiar with. The voice started low, then rose in a gorgeous
crescendo, belting a beautifully bright E flat.
A young blonde girl sitting beside Christina leaned over and
whispered, “Who is that?”
Christina clenched her teeth and said, “Desiree Brookside.”
“Wow,” the girl replied, “she’s really good.”
“No she’s not!” Christina snapped.
“Oh, come on,” the girl said, “Don’t you hear her? Who can
compete with that?”
Christina rolled her eyes and said, “Shut up.”
Christina had never understood what people thought was so
special about Desiree. Christina had known Desiree practically her entire
life. They had both gone to the same school and were even in the same
grade. They had the same vocal instructor and went to the same dance
studio. And of course, they always auditioned for the same roles.
48
Da ne Morey
D ane M orey
Desiree emerged from the other room with a flourish. Her long
blonde hair was flowing in gracious waves and she wore a big toothy smile.
It was a smile that had charmed so many, but Christina saw right through
it. Underneath that smile was a monster. Christina remembered their
sixth grade school play, Beauty and the Beast. Christina wanted to be Belle
more than anything in the world, but while she wasn’t looking, Desiree
had placed a tack on her chair. The tears that came pouring out smeared
Christina’s make-up and the audition was a disaster. Christina looked more
like a miserable clown than a princess. In the end, Desiree was cast as Belle,
and Christina had to settle for a singing napkin.
With a confident air, Desiree strode into the room. She wore a
short dark skirt and a tightly fitting blouse. Walking with her chin held
high, Desiree over-swayed her hips, accentuating the movement with each
deliberate step.
“What a slut,” Christina mumbled, just loud enough for Desiree to
hear.
Passing by, Desiree showed off her sparkling teeth and said, “Good
luck, darling.”
Christina put on a false smile and said, “Thanks.” The two locked
eyes momentarily before Desiree took a seat at the opposite end of
the room. Christina rolled he eyes in disgust. “Good luck, darling,” she
mimicked under her breath. That’s what Desiree always said to her, before
every audition. Christina once tried to keep track of how many times
Desiree had used the phrase, but she quickly abandoned the effort.
“She’s gorgeous,” whispered another girl sitting behind Christina.
The girl had on a large nametag that read “Rachel” in flowery penmanship.
The blonde girl beside Christina turned around in her chair and
said in an excited voice, “I know! How does she get her hair to curl like
that?”
“She is just flawless!” squealed Rachel.
“She’s so pretty, I bet you she doesn’t even have to wear make-up!”
said the girl.
“No,” Christina said under her breath, “she just wears so much
make-up all the time that people have forgotten what her face looks like
underneath.”
“And that voice!” exclaimed Rachel.
“Oh my gosh!” said the girl. “She is simply perfect!”
With a glare, Christina stood up and stormed off to the other side
of the room. Nobody ever talked about how pretty she was. Nobody ever
gossiped about her voice. It was always Desiree, and it wasn’t fair. After all,
hadn’t she played just as many lead roles as Desiree?
“Your attention please,” said a man with a clipboard standing at
the front of the room. “We need to see Christina Roberts and Desiree
Brookside. The rest of you may leave.”
Christina shot a look towards Desiree, who was calm and collected
as usual. The rest of the room shuffled slowly towards the exit.
“Break a leg,” whispered Rachel as she passed Desiree. Desiree
smiled and nodded.
“We will begin again in five minutes,” announced the man with
the clipboard. Closing the door behind him, the man disappeared into the
other room, leaving just Christina and Desiree. Without speaking, the girls
squinted at each other from opposite ends of the room.
The rivalry had begun after those auditions for the sixth-grade
play. The tears Christina had cried after sitting on the tack were merely a
fraction of the tears that would come late at night in her bedroom. Sobbing,
Christina tore down the huge poster of Belle on her wall. Crumpling the
poster, she let it fall from her hands as she sunk to her knees. The visions of
the day that had made sleep so elusive played endlessly in her mind.
“She did it!” she had screamed. “She put the tack on my chair!”
49
50
Da ne Morey
D ane M orey
Desiree emerged from the other room with a flourish. Her long
blonde hair was flowing in gracious waves and she wore a big toothy smile.
It was a smile that had charmed so many, but Christina saw right through
it. Underneath that smile was a monster. Christina remembered their
sixth grade school play, Beauty and the Beast. Christina wanted to be Belle
more than anything in the world, but while she wasn’t looking, Desiree
had placed a tack on her chair. The tears that came pouring out smeared
Christina’s make-up and the audition was a disaster. Christina looked more
like a miserable clown than a princess. In the end, Desiree was cast as Belle,
and Christina had to settle for a singing napkin.
With a confident air, Desiree strode into the room. She wore a
short dark skirt and a tightly fitting blouse. Walking with her chin held
high, Desiree over-swayed her hips, accentuating the movement with each
deliberate step.
“What a slut,” Christina mumbled, just loud enough for Desiree to
hear.
Passing by, Desiree showed off her sparkling teeth and said, “Good
luck, darling.”
Christina put on a false smile and said, “Thanks.” The two locked
eyes momentarily before Desiree took a seat at the opposite end of
the room. Christina rolled he eyes in disgust. “Good luck, darling,” she
mimicked under her breath. That’s what Desiree always said to her, before
every audition. Christina once tried to keep track of how many times
Desiree had used the phrase, but she quickly abandoned the effort.
“She’s gorgeous,” whispered another girl sitting behind Christina.
The girl had on a large nametag that read “Rachel” in flowery penmanship.
The blonde girl beside Christina turned around in her chair and
said in an excited voice, “I know! How does she get her hair to curl like
that?”
“She is just flawless!” squealed Rachel.
“She’s so pretty, I bet you she doesn’t even have to wear make-up!”
said the girl.
“No,” Christina said under her breath, “she just wears so much
make-up all the time that people have forgotten what her face looks like
underneath.”
“And that voice!” exclaimed Rachel.
“Oh my gosh!” said the girl. “She is simply perfect!”
With a glare, Christina stood up and stormed off to the other side
of the room. Nobody ever talked about how pretty she was. Nobody ever
gossiped about her voice. It was always Desiree, and it wasn’t fair. After all,
hadn’t she played just as many lead roles as Desiree?
“Your attention please,” said a man with a clipboard standing at
the front of the room. “We need to see Christina Roberts and Desiree
Brookside. The rest of you may leave.”
Christina shot a look towards Desiree, who was calm and collected
as usual. The rest of the room shuffled slowly towards the exit.
“Break a leg,” whispered Rachel as she passed Desiree. Desiree
smiled and nodded.
“We will begin again in five minutes,” announced the man with
the clipboard. Closing the door behind him, the man disappeared into the
other room, leaving just Christina and Desiree. Without speaking, the girls
squinted at each other from opposite ends of the room.
The rivalry had begun after those auditions for the sixth-grade
play. The tears Christina had cried after sitting on the tack were merely a
fraction of the tears that would come late at night in her bedroom. Sobbing,
Christina tore down the huge poster of Belle on her wall. Crumpling the
poster, she let it fall from her hands as she sunk to her knees. The visions of
the day that had made sleep so elusive played endlessly in her mind.
“She did it!” she had screamed. “She put the tack on my chair!”
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“No I didn’t,” Desiree said. “It must have fallen off of the poster
board.”
“You cheater!” Christina cried.
Desiree smiled, leaned in closer, and whispered, “It’s all part of the
game.”
Christina screamed and lunged for Desiree only to be restrained
by a teacher.
“Now, now,” the teacher had reassured, “I’m sure it was an accident.
These things happen. Desiree didn’t put the tack on your chair.”
No matter how much she wailed, Christina never convinced
anyone of Desiree’s trickery. So, sitting there in her bedroom that night,
Christina resolved to exact her revenge. Clenching her fists, she yelled, “I
hate you, Desiree!”
At the next auditions, Christina got her chance. Seeing Desiree’s
head shot on an unoccupied table, Christina took a sharpie and drew a
lovely mustache and glasses. When Desiree saw the photo, she turned
red as a tomato. Desiree never confronted Christina, but sure enough, at
the next auditions, Christina’s head shot had huge troll ears and a tongue
sticking out.
Each year the tricks got worse. One year, Christina switched
Desiree’s hair spray with body spray, and the aroma was so strong that
Desiree’s eyes were watering for hours. The next year, Christina applied
her eye-liner with a black colored pencil and contracted an eye infection.
Neither girl ever said a word to the other, but they both knew. It was a
silent war, a dirty war. So, they both learned not to dwell on the past,
but to look forward to their revenge. In their senior year, at auditions for
The Little Mermaid, someone accidentally knocked over Desiree’s water
bottle. Desiree’s throat was so dry by the end of the audition that she wasn’t
able to sing and Christina was cast as Ariel. Desiree was so crushed that she
wasn’t seen at school for nearly a week after missing out on her dream role.
51
Christina had thought that she finally had the last laugh, but when word
spread that Desiree had plans to move to NewYork, Desiree was once again
the talk of the school.
“So,” Desiree said, finally breaking the silence, “it’s been a little
while, hasn’t it? How is the big city treating you?”
“Fine,” Christina replied.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Desiree said, barely pausing to hear
Christina’s response. “I was just offered a role in a touring and I am ecstatic.
But, when I heard about this audition, I simply couldn’t say no. I mean, this
is the opportunity of a lifetime—”
“Would you be quiet already?” Christina shouted.
Desiree paused with her mouth half open and said, “Um, excuse
me?”
“I don’t care about your stupid roles or how great you think you
are,” Christina said.
“Oh yeah,” Desiree said, standing up, “you’re one to talk, coming
from the girl wearing her grandmother’s clothes.”
“Well, at least I don’t have to wear twenty pounds of make-up
everyday just to look pretty,” Christina retorted, jumping to her feet.
Taking a step closer, Desiree said, “Why don’t you just go back
home? You’ll never make it as an actress.”
“I’ve got a better chance than you,” Christina said taking a step
towards Desiree.
“Oh, really?” Desiree mused, taking two steps, “I’m a star! You’d
be lucky to be an ensemble girl!”
“This is my role,” Christina asserted, matching Desiree stride for
stride. “This is my big break, and you’re not going to steal it from me this
time.”
“Typical Christina, always thinking about yourself,” Desiree
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“No I didn’t,” Desiree said. “It must have fallen off of the poster
board.”
“You cheater!” Christina cried.
Desiree smiled, leaned in closer, and whispered, “It’s all part of the
game.”
Christina screamed and lunged for Desiree only to be restrained
by a teacher.
“Now, now,” the teacher had reassured, “I’m sure it was an accident.
These things happen. Desiree didn’t put the tack on your chair.”
No matter how much she wailed, Christina never convinced
anyone of Desiree’s trickery. So, sitting there in her bedroom that night,
Christina resolved to exact her revenge. Clenching her fists, she yelled, “I
hate you, Desiree!”
At the next auditions, Christina got her chance. Seeing Desiree’s
head shot on an unoccupied table, Christina took a sharpie and drew a
lovely mustache and glasses. When Desiree saw the photo, she turned
red as a tomato. Desiree never confronted Christina, but sure enough, at
the next auditions, Christina’s head shot had huge troll ears and a tongue
sticking out.
Each year the tricks got worse. One year, Christina switched
Desiree’s hair spray with body spray, and the aroma was so strong that
Desiree’s eyes were watering for hours. The next year, Christina applied
her eye-liner with a black colored pencil and contracted an eye infection.
Neither girl ever said a word to the other, but they both knew. It was a
silent war, a dirty war. So, they both learned not to dwell on the past,
but to look forward to their revenge. In their senior year, at auditions for
The Little Mermaid, someone accidentally knocked over Desiree’s water
bottle. Desiree’s throat was so dry by the end of the audition that she wasn’t
able to sing and Christina was cast as Ariel. Desiree was so crushed that she
wasn’t seen at school for nearly a week after missing out on her dream role.
51
Christina had thought that she finally had the last laugh, but when word
spread that Desiree had plans to move to NewYork, Desiree was once again
the talk of the school.
“So,” Desiree said, finally breaking the silence, “it’s been a little
while, hasn’t it? How is the big city treating you?”
“Fine,” Christina replied.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Desiree said, barely pausing to hear
Christina’s response. “I was just offered a role in a touring and I am ecstatic.
But, when I heard about this audition, I simply couldn’t say no. I mean, this
is the opportunity of a lifetime—”
“Would you be quiet already?” Christina shouted.
Desiree paused with her mouth half open and said, “Um, excuse
me?”
“I don’t care about your stupid roles or how great you think you
are,” Christina said.
“Oh yeah,” Desiree said, standing up, “you’re one to talk, coming
from the girl wearing her grandmother’s clothes.”
“Well, at least I don’t have to wear twenty pounds of make-up
everyday just to look pretty,” Christina retorted, jumping to her feet.
Taking a step closer, Desiree said, “Why don’t you just go back
home? You’ll never make it as an actress.”
“I’ve got a better chance than you,” Christina said taking a step
towards Desiree.
“Oh, really?” Desiree mused, taking two steps, “I’m a star! You’d
be lucky to be an ensemble girl!”
“This is my role,” Christina asserted, matching Desiree stride for
stride. “This is my big break, and you’re not going to steal it from me this
time.”
“Typical Christina, always thinking about yourself,” Desiree
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mused. “Did you ever think about how I felt? Did you ever think about how
many roles you’ve stolen from me?”
“You’ve never deserved a single role in your life!” Christina said.
“Every role you’ve gotten has been through deceit.”
“Like you’ve done anything different?” Desiree asked, coming
within an arm’s length of Christina.
Taken aback slightly, Christina said, “You’re the one who started
this, but it will end today. The director will cast me fair and square.”
“You don’t have the connections, darling,” Desiree laughed. “Peter
is a very close friend, and he personally invited me to audition.You’re just
here to make things look fair.”
“And you’re just scared,” Christina said, coming nose to nose with
Desiree. Tilting her head slightly upwards to look Desiree in the eye, she
continued, “You know that you’ve met your match. I’ve got a song that
even you can’t sing, and when the director hears it, he won’t have a choice
to make.”
“Yes, but it will be terribly difficult to sing your miracle-song
without this,” Desiree said, smiling smugly and holding up a silver CD.
Christina’s face turned stone cold. “Give it back,” she said.
“You should be more careful where you place your things, darling,”
said Desiree. “It would be a shame if something got lost.”
“Give it back now,” said Christina, gritting her teeth.
“You know what? I might keep it,” Desiree said, “I think this will be
just perfect for my next audition.”
“You cheater!” Christina sneered.
Desiree smiled and laughed saying, “It’s all part of the game,
darling.”
Christina screamed and lunged for the CD, but Desiree quickly
swept it away and held it behind her back. Making another desperate
attempt, Christina flung herself the other way. Desiree sidestepped and
Christina stumbled into one of the chairs. She turned around, rubbing her
bruised knee.
“Careful, there,” Desiree said with a smirk.
Christina clenched her teeth and crouched low like a bull
preparing to charge. She made another pass at Desiree and this time caught
hold of Desiree’s skirt. Pulling herself closer she reached for the CD, but
Desiree’s arms were too long. Desiree struggled to get away, but Christina
had latched on with an iron grip.
“Give it back!” Christina screamed, but Desiree only laughed even
harder.
Desiree tried to spin away, but Christina wouldn’t let go. A loud
ripping sound cut through Christina’s yelling as Desiree’s skirt split up the
seam. Desiree gasped, and Christina stumbled backwards with a scrap of
clothing in her hand.
With a look of outrage, Desiree raised her hand and said, “Why
you little—” Smack!
Christina was barely aware of what had happened. The sound of
skin upon skin had cut through the room like a knife, and a thick silence
remained. Both girls stood frozen in the middle of the room. Christina’s
head had snapped to the right and she was now looking down at the floor.
Gazing at the crooked leg of one chair, Christina was slowly aware of a
painful stinging in her cheek and she raised a hand to confirm that the
sensation was real. Lifting her eyes hesitantly, Christina turned to look at
Desiree.
Desiree’s mouth hung open as she stared at her own trembling
hand. She stumbled backwards and collapsed into a chair, burying her head
in her hands. Her shoulders shuddered as she sat there sobbing. Christina
stood in stunned silence, rubbing her cheek. For a while, the only sound
that could be heard was the irregular gasps coming from Desiree.
“You win,” Desiree said. “You win.” The words were choppy and
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mused. “Did you ever think about how I felt? Did you ever think about how
many roles you’ve stolen from me?”
“You’ve never deserved a single role in your life!” Christina said.
“Every role you’ve gotten has been through deceit.”
“Like you’ve done anything different?” Desiree asked, coming
within an arm’s length of Christina.
Taken aback slightly, Christina said, “You’re the one who started
this, but it will end today. The director will cast me fair and square.”
“You don’t have the connections, darling,” Desiree laughed. “Peter
is a very close friend, and he personally invited me to audition.You’re just
here to make things look fair.”
“And you’re just scared,” Christina said, coming nose to nose with
Desiree. Tilting her head slightly upwards to look Desiree in the eye, she
continued, “You know that you’ve met your match. I’ve got a song that
even you can’t sing, and when the director hears it, he won’t have a choice
to make.”
“Yes, but it will be terribly difficult to sing your miracle-song
without this,” Desiree said, smiling smugly and holding up a silver CD.
Christina’s face turned stone cold. “Give it back,” she said.
“You should be more careful where you place your things, darling,”
said Desiree. “It would be a shame if something got lost.”
“Give it back now,” said Christina, gritting her teeth.
“You know what? I might keep it,” Desiree said, “I think this will be
just perfect for my next audition.”
“You cheater!” Christina sneered.
Desiree smiled and laughed saying, “It’s all part of the game,
darling.”
Christina screamed and lunged for the CD, but Desiree quickly
swept it away and held it behind her back. Making another desperate
attempt, Christina flung herself the other way. Desiree sidestepped and
Christina stumbled into one of the chairs. She turned around, rubbing her
bruised knee.
“Careful, there,” Desiree said with a smirk.
Christina clenched her teeth and crouched low like a bull
preparing to charge. She made another pass at Desiree and this time caught
hold of Desiree’s skirt. Pulling herself closer she reached for the CD, but
Desiree’s arms were too long. Desiree struggled to get away, but Christina
had latched on with an iron grip.
“Give it back!” Christina screamed, but Desiree only laughed even
harder.
Desiree tried to spin away, but Christina wouldn’t let go. A loud
ripping sound cut through Christina’s yelling as Desiree’s skirt split up the
seam. Desiree gasped, and Christina stumbled backwards with a scrap of
clothing in her hand.
With a look of outrage, Desiree raised her hand and said, “Why
you little—” Smack!
Christina was barely aware of what had happened. The sound of
skin upon skin had cut through the room like a knife, and a thick silence
remained. Both girls stood frozen in the middle of the room. Christina’s
head had snapped to the right and she was now looking down at the floor.
Gazing at the crooked leg of one chair, Christina was slowly aware of a
painful stinging in her cheek and she raised a hand to confirm that the
sensation was real. Lifting her eyes hesitantly, Christina turned to look at
Desiree.
Desiree’s mouth hung open as she stared at her own trembling
hand. She stumbled backwards and collapsed into a chair, burying her head
in her hands. Her shoulders shuddered as she sat there sobbing. Christina
stood in stunned silence, rubbing her cheek. For a while, the only sound
that could be heard was the irregular gasps coming from Desiree.
“You win,” Desiree said. “You win.” The words were choppy and
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barely audible. “I… I can’t live like this.” She pulled out a handkerchief
from her purse and wiped away the mascara that was running down her
cheeks. “No more tricks. No more deceit. I can’t keep living a lie.” She held
up her arms and then let them fall limply to her side. “What does it take
to become famous?” Becoming very quiet, Desiree stared hard at her shoes
and whispered, “What does it cost?”
Christina stood paralyzed, with her hand still resting gently on her
cheek. Her head was spinning and she didn’t know what to do.
Eyes closed, Desiree furrowed her eyebrows and rubbed her
temples as she repeatedly mumbled, “What does it cost?” Then, Desiree’s
face relaxed. She opened her eyes and lowered her hands. Looking to
Christina, Desiree raised her head and their eyes locked for a moment.
Christina saw that there was something different in those eyes. The tears
made them sparkle. Breaking the gaze, Desiree abruptly stood up. She
gathered her belongings and marched towards the door, wiping her eyes.
Reaching the glass, she paused for a moment, her hand hovering above the
door handle. Slowly, Desiree turned to face Christina. With a little halfsmile, she said, “I hope you find what you are looking for.” The tears were
gone, but the sparkle in her eyes remained. The door jingled as Desiree
turned and disappeared into the bustling crowd.
Christina stood, mouth half open and a bright red mark on her
cheek, staring at the door. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t think.
“Desiree Brookside,” said the man with the clipboard, emerging
from the other room. He looked up from his clipboard with a frown,
glancing around the empty room. “Desiree?”
The show was successful, but Christina’s reviews were not good.
Everyone agreed that her voice was beautiful, but the critics complained
that she seemed flat and lacking energy. One man even wrote, “Christina
Roberts looked like a chorus girl thrown into the spotlight.”
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barely audible. “I… I can’t live like this.” She pulled out a handkerchief
from her purse and wiped away the mascara that was running down her
cheeks. “No more tricks. No more deceit. I can’t keep living a lie.” She held
up her arms and then let them fall limply to her side. “What does it take
to become famous?” Becoming very quiet, Desiree stared hard at her shoes
and whispered, “What does it cost?”
Christina stood paralyzed, with her hand still resting gently on her
cheek. Her head was spinning and she didn’t know what to do.
Eyes closed, Desiree furrowed her eyebrows and rubbed her
temples as she repeatedly mumbled, “What does it cost?” Then, Desiree’s
face relaxed. She opened her eyes and lowered her hands. Looking to
Christina, Desiree raised her head and their eyes locked for a moment.
Christina saw that there was something different in those eyes. The tears
made them sparkle. Breaking the gaze, Desiree abruptly stood up. She
gathered her belongings and marched towards the door, wiping her eyes.
Reaching the glass, she paused for a moment, her hand hovering above the
door handle. Slowly, Desiree turned to face Christina. With a little halfsmile, she said, “I hope you find what you are looking for.” The tears were
gone, but the sparkle in her eyes remained. The door jingled as Desiree
turned and disappeared into the bustling crowd.
Christina stood, mouth half open and a bright red mark on her
cheek, staring at the door. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t think.
“Desiree Brookside,” said the man with the clipboard, emerging
from the other room. He looked up from his clipboard with a frown,
glancing around the empty room. “Desiree?”
The show was successful, but Christina’s reviews were not good.
Everyone agreed that her voice was beautiful, but the critics complained
that she seemed flat and lacking energy. One man even wrote, “Christina
Roberts looked like a chorus girl thrown into the spotlight.”
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Christian’s God
Every night, Christina tried to put on a smile, but she simply felt
hollow. She moved around on-stage, barely even thinking about what she
was doing. She said her lines, sang her songs, and danced her choreography,
but something never felt quite right. Christina had seen her dreams come
true, yet she was never satisfied. Every afternoon, she checked the roster
of ticket sales. Desiree was never a name on the list, but still, every night
when she took her bows, Christina saw Desiree Brookside standing at the
back of the theatre, smiling.
57
Crack. The shatter of china.
“It wasn’t me!” Rebecca heard her son shout. Sighing, she left her
magazine open on the couch and walked into the dining room. Her precious
little five year old was standing pressed against the wall, his father’s handmade
ceramic pen holder in pieces on the ground.
“Christian, how many times have I told you NOT to touch the things
on your father’s desk?” She put her hands on her hips and stared at her child.
The young boy recoiled and looked at the ground, thinking. She could tell he
was counting because his lips were moving.
“Four times,” he settled. “But I didn’t touch it!”
“Well then, Christian,” his mother sighed, already knowing the
answer, “who did?”
“God did.”
Her son always said that so matter-of-fact. Rebecca blamed Christian’s
father for not letting her enroll the boy in Bible school last summer – the
folks at Zion would have set him straight on their faith right then and there!
But no, no. All she could do was take him to mass on Sundays, help him pray
before meals and bedtime, and maybe give him remedial lessons when the
opportunity arose. Like now.
“Christian, God did not do this. You did.” She saw that her words
made him squirm.
“But no! No! God did it, I saw him.”
“You saw him, Christian? What does God look like?” Again, Rebecca
knew the answer to this already. But she hoped that eventually he would hear
how silly he sounded and fix himself.
Rebecca had had no such luck with that plan in the past, and she had
no such luck now.
“God’s like me, this big –“ he gestured at around his own height – “an’
he glows an’ plays with me an’ he’s my friend,” he ranted in his five year old
way.
Rebecca held back a groan. “Come here dear,” she said, stepping over
the broken ceramic and picking up her son. “You’re not in trouble, I just want
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Christian’s God
Every night, Christina tried to put on a smile, but she simply felt
hollow. She moved around on-stage, barely even thinking about what she
was doing. She said her lines, sang her songs, and danced her choreography,
but something never felt quite right. Christina had seen her dreams come
true, yet she was never satisfied. Every afternoon, she checked the roster
of ticket sales. Desiree was never a name on the list, but still, every night
when she took her bows, Christina saw Desiree Brookside standing at the
back of the theatre, smiling.
57
Crack. The shatter of china.
“It wasn’t me!” Rebecca heard her son shout. Sighing, she left her
magazine open on the couch and walked into the dining room. Her precious
little five year old was standing pressed against the wall, his father’s handmade
ceramic pen holder in pieces on the ground.
“Christian, how many times have I told you NOT to touch the things
on your father’s desk?” She put her hands on her hips and stared at her child.
The young boy recoiled and looked at the ground, thinking. She could tell he
was counting because his lips were moving.
“Four times,” he settled. “But I didn’t touch it!”
“Well then, Christian,” his mother sighed, already knowing the
answer, “who did?”
“God did.”
Her son always said that so matter-of-fact. Rebecca blamed Christian’s
father for not letting her enroll the boy in Bible school last summer – the
folks at Zion would have set him straight on their faith right then and there!
But no, no. All she could do was take him to mass on Sundays, help him pray
before meals and bedtime, and maybe give him remedial lessons when the
opportunity arose. Like now.
“Christian, God did not do this. You did.” She saw that her words
made him squirm.
“But no! No! God did it, I saw him.”
“You saw him, Christian? What does God look like?” Again, Rebecca
knew the answer to this already. But she hoped that eventually he would hear
how silly he sounded and fix himself.
Rebecca had had no such luck with that plan in the past, and she had
no such luck now.
“God’s like me, this big –“ he gestured at around his own height – “an’
he glows an’ plays with me an’ he’s my friend,” he ranted in his five year old
way.
Rebecca held back a groan. “Come here dear,” she said, stepping over
the broken ceramic and picking up her son. “You’re not in trouble, I just want
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to talk.”
She walked with Christian and set him down on the couch in the
living room. She sat next to him, closing her magazine. It was this month’s
edition of Reader’s Digest, and she was in the middle of an article on Islamic
pilgrimages to Mecca. It was interesting and slightly disturbing, though she
didn’t understand why. But there are more important things to think about, she
thought to herself. Like how to help my son give up his weird little imaginary
friend version of God.
She looked at Christian, and he looked up at her. How she loved her
child, despite his innocence and ignorance! She smiled, and Christian smiled
back, relief growing on his face as he realized he wasn’t going to be punished.
“Okay dear,” she began in her favorite mother-knows-best tone. “Let’s
set this straight. You think God is a little glowing boy that plays with you and
breaks your father’s things?”
Again, Christian looked thoughtful.
“Yes,” he finally answered.
“Well, dear, what does Father Jay teach us at mass?”
“Father Jay… God loves us. An’ we make mistakes. But God still
loves us. An’ he’s our friend. An’ he lives in the sky! An’ he has a son. But he
died. But he’s okay! He’s always with us.” Christian paused. “Right?”
Rebecca could see the problem. But how to fix it?
“Yes, dear, all of that is true. And God spoke with and had special
relationships with men like Abraham and Moses. However, God does not come
down to break your father’s china. Do you understand that?”
Christian furrowed his eyes in youthful confusion. “No, God did
that.”
Rebecca was annoyed. “No dear, that was you. You are blaming your
mistakes on an imaginary friend. God is not an imaginary friend. Imaginary
friends do not exist. Do you understand that?”
Christian was being overwhelmed. “God doesn’t exist?” He asked,
confused, close to tears.
Perhaps she had been too stern. “No, dear, no, no, no…” She hushed
him gently and brought him into her arms. “God exists, and he loves you. I’m
just saying that God, our God, not your friend God, although God is your
friend, has bigger things to do than to break Daddy’s things.”
“Like help Aunt Sarah?” Christian sniffed. Aunt Sarah was his father’s
sister, and she had been sick in the hospital with cancer for several months.
A few nights ago Rebecca had left Christian with a babysitter so she and her
husband could go to her vigil.
“Yes, dear, yes. God, the big God, not the small imaginary God
that breaks things, he’s going to work really hard to help Aunt Sarah.” She
paused a moment. Sarah’s cancer was actually in its final stages, and the poor
woman didn’t have too long to live. It wouldn’t be good to leave Christian
with a potentially scarring test of faith at such a young age. She could say
that sometimes God doesn’t help people live physically… but that could be
difficult to explain. Meanwhile, Christian was digging his face into her side to
dry his face, and while it was adorable, it was also a tad distracting.
“But why did God hurt Aunt Sarah in the first place even?” Christian
asked, his face muffled through her clothes.
“Because sometimes God has to let bad things happen to some people
so good things can happen to others.” It wasn’t a clean explanation, but the kid
was five. Rebecca couldn’t expect him to understand everything.
“So God broke Aunt Sarah?”
Rebecca sighed. “God let Aunt Sarah get cancer so that we would
learn to trust him and believe in him more.”
“But you said God doesn’t exist!” Christian was getting frustrated.
Rebecca could tell by his tone, even if she couldn’t see his face.
“Not your God, Christian, the friend that broke daddy’s pen holder,
MY God, the one that Father Jay talks about.”
“That God doesn’t exist?”
“No, Christian,” she corrected. “The other one.”
Christian fell silent. Rebecca could hear him breathing softly. After a moment,
he pulled his face from her chest and said slowly:
“God exists as a big man in the sky. But my friend God does not exist.
Right?”
Relieved, Rebecca cried out a cheer. “Very good! That’s right,
Christian, yay!”
She hugged him tight, trying to pass on the love she felt for him.
Such a quick learner. “Mommy loves you very much,” she whispered. Positive
reinforcement might help him understand his faith. She read that in a magazine
somewhere.
“I love you too, Mommy.”
59
60
Vi cto r S c hn eide r ‘ 12
V ict or S chnei der ‘ 1 2
to talk.”
She walked with Christian and set him down on the couch in the
living room. She sat next to him, closing her magazine. It was this month’s
edition of Reader’s Digest, and she was in the middle of an article on Islamic
pilgrimages to Mecca. It was interesting and slightly disturbing, though she
didn’t understand why. But there are more important things to think about, she
thought to herself. Like how to help my son give up his weird little imaginary
friend version of God.
She looked at Christian, and he looked up at her. How she loved her
child, despite his innocence and ignorance! She smiled, and Christian smiled
back, relief growing on his face as he realized he wasn’t going to be punished.
“Okay dear,” she began in her favorite mother-knows-best tone. “Let’s
set this straight. You think God is a little glowing boy that plays with you and
breaks your father’s things?”
Again, Christian looked thoughtful.
“Yes,” he finally answered.
“Well, dear, what does Father Jay teach us at mass?”
“Father Jay… God loves us. An’ we make mistakes. But God still
loves us. An’ he’s our friend. An’ he lives in the sky! An’ he has a son. But he
died. But he’s okay! He’s always with us.” Christian paused. “Right?”
Rebecca could see the problem. But how to fix it?
“Yes, dear, all of that is true. And God spoke with and had special
relationships with men like Abraham and Moses. However, God does not come
down to break your father’s china. Do you understand that?”
Christian furrowed his eyes in youthful confusion. “No, God did
that.”
Rebecca was annoyed. “No dear, that was you. You are blaming your
mistakes on an imaginary friend. God is not an imaginary friend. Imaginary
friends do not exist. Do you understand that?”
Christian was being overwhelmed. “God doesn’t exist?” He asked,
confused, close to tears.
Perhaps she had been too stern. “No, dear, no, no, no…” She hushed
him gently and brought him into her arms. “God exists, and he loves you. I’m
just saying that God, our God, not your friend God, although God is your
friend, has bigger things to do than to break Daddy’s things.”
“Like help Aunt Sarah?” Christian sniffed. Aunt Sarah was his father’s
sister, and she had been sick in the hospital with cancer for several months.
A few nights ago Rebecca had left Christian with a babysitter so she and her
husband could go to her vigil.
“Yes, dear, yes. God, the big God, not the small imaginary God
that breaks things, he’s going to work really hard to help Aunt Sarah.” She
paused a moment. Sarah’s cancer was actually in its final stages, and the poor
woman didn’t have too long to live. It wouldn’t be good to leave Christian
with a potentially scarring test of faith at such a young age. She could say
that sometimes God doesn’t help people live physically… but that could be
difficult to explain. Meanwhile, Christian was digging his face into her side to
dry his face, and while it was adorable, it was also a tad distracting.
“But why did God hurt Aunt Sarah in the first place even?” Christian
asked, his face muffled through her clothes.
“Because sometimes God has to let bad things happen to some people
so good things can happen to others.” It wasn’t a clean explanation, but the kid
was five. Rebecca couldn’t expect him to understand everything.
“So God broke Aunt Sarah?”
Rebecca sighed. “God let Aunt Sarah get cancer so that we would
learn to trust him and believe in him more.”
“But you said God doesn’t exist!” Christian was getting frustrated.
Rebecca could tell by his tone, even if she couldn’t see his face.
“Not your God, Christian, the friend that broke daddy’s pen holder,
MY God, the one that Father Jay talks about.”
“That God doesn’t exist?”
“No, Christian,” she corrected. “The other one.”
Christian fell silent. Rebecca could hear him breathing softly. After a moment,
he pulled his face from her chest and said slowly:
“God exists as a big man in the sky. But my friend God does not exist.
Right?”
Relieved, Rebecca cried out a cheer. “Very good! That’s right,
Christian, yay!”
She hugged him tight, trying to pass on the love she felt for him.
Such a quick learner. “Mommy loves you very much,” she whispered. Positive
reinforcement might help him understand his faith. She read that in a magazine
somewhere.
“I love you too, Mommy.”
59
60
Vi cto r S c hn eid er
K eegan D oy le
‘ 12
B r a h m a n : a n O dys s e y
The phone rang.
“Now, why don’t you go into the kitchen and get yourself a cookie?”
Christian looked up at her with his young face and tender eyes. A delighted
smile grew and he bolted into the kitchen.
Pleased, Rebecca leaned over the couch to pick up the phone. “Hello?
Oh, hi Mary! Yeah, I’m just home with Christian. That’s good, good!. And tell
you what – I just had the best conversation with him, he’s such a smart boy.
Oh, one second, Mary -” she covered the speaker with her hand and called out,
“Only one cookie, okay?”
“Yeah, Mom!”
Rebecca returned to her call. “Sorry about that. Oh yeah, our talk
went great. He broke his father’s old ceramic pen-holder thing - you know that
relic from high school? And Christian blamed it on his imaginary friend, the
one he named God, the dear. Oh, yes! I just sat him down and we talked about
it. No, it was easy! I just helped him realize that Christian’s God doesn’t exist.”
Unfortunately, Rebecca didn’t hear Mary’s response, as there was a
crash from the kitchen that sounded quite like a tin of cookies hitting the floor.
61
an excerpt from chapter one
In all the broad expanse of light that shone and stabbed through the
mists, Greyson Gargery saw an enduring gloom breach the mysterious veil that
clung to the surface of the water. The small pond that sat diagonally from his
house, and before him now, had unknown depth. The green murk that sat on
the surface of the pond created a quaint allure for Greyson. Nature’s enigmatic
and primeval mask, having long sat weightlessly above the pond, pierced his
teeming mind. He wondered what secrets could be held in these mists, what
heaven or hell was held hanged or heeded within them. Greyson’s mind was
a slave to every elusive possibility held by the fog. Yes, his mind was a slave
to its own curiosity, but all the same, it also was the master of the unknown.
With curiosity and a yearning for adventure forever in his heart and compelled
to submission, Greyson chose to succumb to the seemingly predetermined
mundane day. He rose from his patch of dew-worn grass, now pressed tightly
to the earth, and he sauntered toward the house. All around him were tall,
monolithic trees, which seemed to envelop the Gargery family’s property; it
was its own world, and not a pleasant one. Even on the brightest of days, it
was dark as any night. And behind Greyson loomed a steep, grey-gravel and
dirt path marked by tire-tracks. Those tracks grew further behind Greyson as
the house loomed closer, like an unwelcome stranger, ready to shake his bitter
hand with its own, brass, grasp. Greyson walked during that moment as an
elderly and wizened man, with the gruesome weight of life borne against his
shoulders like Atlas, and burdened by the slowness of a tired body that carried
an adversely chipper soul. Alas, he was young, and the thought of wisdom
beyond his own perplexed him. Even so, Greyson was not ignorant; Greyson
had a keen sense of confidence in his own decisions. It was that air of truth
which caused others to be so enthralled by Greyson’s words, as though they’d
62
Vi cto r S c hn eid er
K eegan D oy le
‘ 12
B r a h m a n : a n O dys s e y
The phone rang.
“Now, why don’t you go into the kitchen and get yourself a cookie?”
Christian looked up at her with his young face and tender eyes. A delighted
smile grew and he bolted into the kitchen.
Pleased, Rebecca leaned over the couch to pick up the phone. “Hello?
Oh, hi Mary! Yeah, I’m just home with Christian. That’s good, good!. And tell
you what – I just had the best conversation with him, he’s such a smart boy.
Oh, one second, Mary -” she covered the speaker with her hand and called out,
“Only one cookie, okay?”
“Yeah, Mom!”
Rebecca returned to her call. “Sorry about that. Oh yeah, our talk
went great. He broke his father’s old ceramic pen-holder thing - you know that
relic from high school? And Christian blamed it on his imaginary friend, the
one he named God, the dear. Oh, yes! I just sat him down and we talked about
it. No, it was easy! I just helped him realize that Christian’s God doesn’t exist.”
Unfortunately, Rebecca didn’t hear Mary’s response, as there was a
crash from the kitchen that sounded quite like a tin of cookies hitting the floor.
61
an excerpt from chapter one
In all the broad expanse of light that shone and stabbed through the
mists, Greyson Gargery saw an enduring gloom breach the mysterious veil that
clung to the surface of the water. The small pond that sat diagonally from his
house, and before him now, had unknown depth. The green murk that sat on
the surface of the pond created a quaint allure for Greyson. Nature’s enigmatic
and primeval mask, having long sat weightlessly above the pond, pierced his
teeming mind. He wondered what secrets could be held in these mists, what
heaven or hell was held hanged or heeded within them. Greyson’s mind was
a slave to every elusive possibility held by the fog. Yes, his mind was a slave
to its own curiosity, but all the same, it also was the master of the unknown.
With curiosity and a yearning for adventure forever in his heart and compelled
to submission, Greyson chose to succumb to the seemingly predetermined
mundane day. He rose from his patch of dew-worn grass, now pressed tightly
to the earth, and he sauntered toward the house. All around him were tall,
monolithic trees, which seemed to envelop the Gargery family’s property; it
was its own world, and not a pleasant one. Even on the brightest of days, it
was dark as any night. And behind Greyson loomed a steep, grey-gravel and
dirt path marked by tire-tracks. Those tracks grew further behind Greyson as
the house loomed closer, like an unwelcome stranger, ready to shake his bitter
hand with its own, brass, grasp. Greyson walked during that moment as an
elderly and wizened man, with the gruesome weight of life borne against his
shoulders like Atlas, and burdened by the slowness of a tired body that carried
an adversely chipper soul. Alas, he was young, and the thought of wisdom
beyond his own perplexed him. Even so, Greyson was not ignorant; Greyson
had a keen sense of confidence in his own decisions. It was that air of truth
which caused others to be so enthralled by Greyson’s words, as though they’d
been aroused by some great orator of ancient days. And so, although dreadfully
fatigued, suffering from the very natural ennui which often accompanies those
meant for greater things, Greyson did walk confidently toward his house.
62
graham Haehnle
Ju stin Hob in g
T h e Fa l l
Stand tall, small mountain,
Adorned by lonely red rose,
Free of all others.
Only those who die alone
Make peace under solemn stone.
63
64
graham Haehnle
Ju stin Hob in g
T h e Fa l l
been aroused by some great orator of ancient days. And so,
although dreadfully fatigued, suffering from the very natural
ennui which often accompanies those meant for greater
things, Greyson did walk confidently toward his house.
Stand tall, small mountain,
Adorned by lonely red rose,
Free of all others.
Only those who die alone
Make peace under solemn stone.
63
64
Collin S co tt
Co l l in S c ott
Graphite
The dust falls off your pencil.
Crumbs of creativity.
It is so satisfying to brush them off.
Your work is revealed underneath.
It is nothing like you had pictured.
In fact, it barely is a distant relative.
It has grown up in its own peculiar way.
Gestated in your brain,
but the birth has been botched by the uncertain flick of your wrist.
It never could have ended up as you had imagined anyways.
It never can.
After it is finished, it must be left to fend for itself.
Whatever disadvantage you think you may have given it may, or
may not, be apparent
to everyone, or anyone, else.
This flawed manifestation of your vision may be considered a masterpiece,
or a piece of garbage, like you always thought to yourself.
You hope maybe you can trick them once again.
Maybe they’ve just been acting polite this whole time.
Whoever they are.
None of them matter.
None of it matters.
It is done.
You must move past it,
onto the next thing.
Always.
Build upon past failure,
Success.
Soak it in.
The cool blue rejuvenates wholy.
Take a break from the hectic uncertainty of everything else.
Put a pencil to paper and be certain of the mark it will make,
and how simply it can be erased.
Translate your thoughts.
Let your fingers scream.
While your mind begins to rest.
Take a deep breath.
Let yourself go under.
67
68
Collin S co tt
Co l l in S c ott
Graphite
The dust falls off your pencil.
Crumbs of creativity.
It is so satisfying to brush them off.
Your work is revealed underneath.
It is nothing like you had pictured.
In fact, it barely is a distant relative.
It has grown up in its own peculiar way.
Gestated in your brain,
but the birth has been botched by the uncertain flick of your wrist.
It never could have ended up as you had imagined anyways.
It never can.
After it is finished, it must be left to fend for itself.
Whatever disadvantage you think you may have given it may, or
may not, be apparent
to everyone, or anyone, else.
This flawed manifestation of your vision may be considered a masterpiece,
or a piece of garbage, like you always thought to yourself.
You hope maybe you can trick them once again.
Maybe they’ve just been acting polite this whole time.
Whoever they are.
None of them matter.
None of it matters.
It is done.
You must move past it,
onto the next thing.
Always.
Build upon past failure,
Success.
Soak it in.
The cool blue rejuvenates wholy.
Take a break from the hectic uncertainty of everything else.
Put a pencil to paper and be certain of the mark it will make,
and how simply it can be erased.
Translate your thoughts.
Let your fingers scream.
While your mind begins to rest.
Take a deep breath.
Let yourself go under.
67
68
pa tri ck McF a d d e n
Pat rick M cFadden
LO S T
The sailor sailed for days, weeks,
Maybe even months.
The ocean was his new home,
His new and only friend.
He woke up every single day
To rice for breakfast,
Rice for lunch, and then a feast of rice for dinner.
Even when he drank water,
It still managed to taste like rice.
He would lay awake shaking
Uncontrollably at night because he forgot
What the face of his darling looked like.
Whenever he tried to remember,
All he could think of was the salty taste
Of the ocean air in his nose and mouth.
All he could remember were the steps
It took to keep his wooden fish swimming.
There was a typewriter on the wooden fish,
A typewriter the sailor came to love.
His bunkmates could hear the clicking of keys
throughout the nights when he could not sleep.
Everyone knew they were letters to his darling,
Letters lost at sea in this ocean,
But the words kept coming.
A day came when the sailor poured a barrel
off the side of the wooden fish.
Every letter had an address neatly typed,
A ribbon to keep it tight, and a wish that it might find
His darling back home.
He had even forgotten what her voice
Sounded like when she sang upon his ears
Like that of church bells upon its congregation.
Whenever he placed his hands upon his ears
To shut out the crashing of the waves,
He could still feel the mighty roar
Of the tempest in his bones.
He was the ocean, and the ocean was he.
When the nights came when he did fall asleep,
His shaking was met by nightmares.
They seemed to be dreams at first,
For he would be with his darling back home.
She would be cooking stew by the stove,
Only to be met by thunderous waves
Whenever he looked.
69
70
pa tri ck McF a d d e n
Pat rick M cFadden
LO S T
The sailor sailed for days, weeks,
Maybe even months.
The ocean was his new home,
His new and only friend.
He woke up every single day
To rice for breakfast,
Rice for lunch, and then a feast of rice for dinner.
Even when he drank water,
It still managed to taste like rice.
He would lay awake shaking
Uncontrollably at night because he forgot
What the face of his darling looked like.
Whenever he tried to remember,
All he could think of was the salty taste
Of the ocean air in his nose and mouth.
All he could remember were the steps
It took to keep his wooden fish swimming.
There was a typewriter on the wooden fish,
A typewriter the sailor came to love.
His bunkmates could hear the clicking of keys
throughout the nights when he could not sleep.
Everyone knew they were letters to his darling,
Letters lost at sea in this ocean,
But the words kept coming.
A day came when the sailor poured a barrel
off the side of the wooden fish.
Every letter had an address neatly typed,
A ribbon to keep it tight, and a wish that it might find
His darling back home.
He had even forgotten what her voice
Sounded like when she sang upon his ears
Like that of church bells upon its congregation.
Whenever he placed his hands upon his ears
To shut out the crashing of the waves,
He could still feel the mighty roar
Of the tempest in his bones.
He was the ocean, and the ocean was he.
When the nights came when he did fall asleep,
His shaking was met by nightmares.
They seemed to be dreams at first,
For he would be with his darling back home.
She would be cooking stew by the stove,
Only to be met by thunderous waves
Whenever he looked.
69
70
Nathan Haberthy
Treasures of Alexandria
A dark navy curtain draws.
the sun hidden from her worshippers.
Striped rectangular clouds gain proximity,
perched upon floating trees,
their bulky bellows lurk
past the waving cattails
and across the lime ripples.
Sandstone pillars quiver in fear.
A great desolation looms.
Obsidian depictions are fetched,
their incense bowls granted pleasure.
Thick choking smoke
permeates the ether.
What about the scribes?
Nathan Haberthy
cast off into the fire’s embrace.
Edges smoldering,
singed by waves of burning water,
blackened by the kiss of ash,
branded by dancing embers.
Smooth iron blades hush the defiant.
Innocent blood, life from the gods,
drained. Stained to the marble floor.
Crimson and passionate,
like the feathered helmets of each centurion.
Kings wail in their pointed graves.
The writings lost to the abyss.
All that once was Alexandria:
forgotten.
yellowed and parched,
rolls of papyrus rest unattended.
Their meanings and truths
all evoke a demise. Hope,
it flutters away.
Dazzling emerald and sapphire ornaments
Stow away into the hands of thieves.
“O Ra, why have you abandoned us?”
“Anubis, guide me swiftly to Duat!”
Both bow down to the Roman catapults.
Sulphuric fumes and biting heat
taint the coastal air.
Flames ravish and devour
Silken drapes.
Yet what of the scrolls?
Alone, neglected,
71
72
Nathan Haberthy
Treasures of Alexandria
A dark navy curtain draws.
the sun hidden from her worshippers.
Striped rectangular clouds gain proximity,
perched upon floating trees,
their bulky bellows lurk
past the waving cattails
and across the lime ripples.
Sandstone pillars quiver in fear.
A great desolation looms.
Obsidian depictions are fetched,
their incense bowls granted pleasure.
Thick choking smoke
permeates the ether.
What about the scribes?
Nathan Haberthy
cast off into the fire’s embrace.
Edges smoldering,
singed by waves of burning water,
blackened by the kiss of ash,
branded by dancing embers.
Smooth iron blades hush the defiant.
Innocent blood, life from the gods,
drained. Stained to the marble floor.
Crimson and passionate,
like the feathered helmets of each centurion.
Kings wail in their pointed graves.
The writings lost to the abyss.
All that once was Alexandria:
forgotten.
yellowed and parched,
rolls of papyrus rest unattended.
Their meanings and truths
all evoke a demise. Hope,
it flutters away.
Dazzling emerald and sapphire ornaments
Stow away into the hands of thieves.
“O Ra, why have you abandoned us?”
“Anubis, guide me swiftly to Duat!”
Both bow down to the Roman catapults.
Sulphuric fumes and biting heat
taint the coastal air.
Flames ravish and devour
Silken drapes.
Yet what of the scrolls?
Alone, neglected,
71
72
Max Stepaniak
Max Stepaniak
“The pen is mightier than the sword.”
After the beast has been beheaded, the tyrant dethroned, the hammer dropped.
Yet sticks and stones can break my bones.
Speeches of peace and love work great
And actions speak louder.
When the speaker at the podium has the winning army accompanying him.
“The pen is mightier.”
Words are thin if not backed up with action.
A more naive statement has never been written.
The educated man, his nose with in his nose held as high as his feeling of superi-
Cold, unyielding steel.
ority
Flimsy, brittle plastic.
Reclining in his throne of self-worth, with his written degree proud words bast-
One spills blood, hot, crimson, life;
ing egotistically
The other ink, black, sloppy, squid spit.
Proclaiming to all
An indelible stain. An irksome water-resistant mess Vs.
“Is my genius not great?”
a permanent death, a painful, terrifying, mysterious, end to existence.
“Are you not in awe?”
I’d prefer having an angry letter delivered through my rusted old mail slot
He will choose the pen and it will eventually cause him to tumble from Ivory
Than to have fifteen pounds of steel lodged into the vulnerable gray matter of
Tower
my brain,
For the experience, man, the man who is wise to the world’s antics, he seizes
Resting in my internal library like a steak knife in a hunk of tender sirloin
victory.
Digging its way into my mind,
Being a witness to many battles, events, the passing of seasons and leaders.
Wriggling deeper like a great metal maggot.
It has taught him the value of action,
Slicing away at my ability to think words
The simple truth embedded into man’s soul.
If It’s So Mighty
Let alone write them.
The sword wins. See the point?
Honeyed words flowing from a charismatic piece of parchment.
It can calm the bear,
Sooth the savage.
But only the beast still remains
A constant freight. An active bomb.
A fuse waiting for the wrong word to set it aflame. To let it loose.
However, sever the head, tear out the arms, hack the horns.
And the beast is gone, no more theat.
I’ve known words to prevent or start wars but never to overtake.
The words of forgiveness and peace only sing
73
74
Max Stepaniak
Max Stepaniak
“The pen is mightier than the sword.”
After the beast has been beheaded, the tyrant dethroned, the hammer dropped.
Yet sticks and stones can break my bones.
Speeches of peace and love work great
And actions speak louder.
When the speaker at the podium has the winning army accompanying him.
“The pen is mightier.”
Words are thin if not backed up with action.
A more naive statement has never been written.
The educated man, his nose with in his nose held as high as his feeling of superi-
Cold, unyielding steel.
ority
Flimsy, brittle plastic.
Reclining in his throne of self-worth, with his written degree proud words bast-
One spills blood, hot, crimson, life;
ing egotistically
The other ink, black, sloppy, squid spit.
Proclaiming to all
An indelible stain. An irksome water-resistant mess Vs.
“Is my genius not great?”
a permanent death, a painful, terrifying, mysterious, end to existence.
“Are you not in awe?”
I’d prefer having an angry letter delivered through my rusted old mail slot
He will choose the pen and it will eventually cause him to tumble from Ivory
Than to have fifteen pounds of steel lodged into the vulnerable gray matter of
Tower
my brain,
For the experience, man, the man who is wise to the world’s antics, he seizes
Resting in my internal library like a steak knife in a hunk of tender sirloin
victory.
Digging its way into my mind,
Being a witness to many battles, events, the passing of seasons and leaders.
Wriggling deeper like a great metal maggot.
It has taught him the value of action,
Slicing away at my ability to think words
The simple truth embedded into man’s soul.
If It’s So Mighty
Let alone write them.
The sword wins. See the point?
Honeyed words flowing from a charismatic piece of parchment.
It can calm the bear,
Sooth the savage.
But only the beast still remains
A constant freight. An active bomb.
A fuse waiting for the wrong word to set it aflame. To let it loose.
However, sever the head, tear out the arms, hack the horns.
And the beast is gone, no more theat.
I’ve known words to prevent or start wars but never to overtake.
The words of forgiveness and peace only sing
73
74
John D ’ A less a n d r o
J os h Carr ero
C h a n g e d, N ot Lo s t
T h e r e W e S to o d
The old scholars in Alexandria
There we stood, silently searching
Gave woe that Sanskrit had been lost to time.
the ravaged ruins of a sinister city,
As monks sang their hymns and their Gloria,
They alluded to ancient Grecian rhyme.
littered by broken buildings and barren blocks
that once held houses, protecting people
from frightening freaks that ran wild.
New thinkers, the so-called enlightened ones,
It was on one of these blocks that we found it:
Read the Bible and wrote philosophy,
a lonely library lost in the wreckage.
And then conquistadors with guns
We sprinted straight up the steps
Brought to America Don Quixote.
of that lonely library,
Soon there was blending all around the world
Of literature not lost but changed.
dove into the double doors
and landed lightly
on the firm floor.
Now in modern days we read all the old
We searched, scanning series after series
And add our technology to the aged.
until we no longer needed its knowledge.
So the art of language is never lost
It is then that we understood everything.
Only changes, like the melting of frost.
This lonely library was a houseA house of hidden wisdom, protecting pages
From the frightening fires that raged wildly outside.
There we stood, peacefully pondering
Until we daringly decided something radical:
We would be the house for this lonely library.
Quietly, the four of us stepped silently
in front of those double doors
to stand guard guard.
75
76
John D ’ A less a n d r o
J os h Carr ero
C h a n g e d, N ot Lo s t
T h e r e W e S to o d
The old scholars in Alexandria
There we stood, silently searching
Gave woe that Sanskrit had been lost to time.
the ravaged ruins of a sinister city,
As monks sang their hymns and their Gloria,
They alluded to ancient Grecian rhyme.
littered by broken buildings and barren blocks
that once held houses, protecting people
from frightening freaks that ran wild.
New thinkers, the so-called enlightened ones,
It was on one of these blocks that we found it:
Read the Bible and wrote philosophy,
a lonely library lost in the wreckage.
And then conquistadors with guns
We sprinted straight up the steps
Brought to America Don Quixote.
of that lonely library,
Soon there was blending all around the world
Of literature not lost but changed.
dove into the double doors
and landed lightly
on the firm floor.
Now in modern days we read all the old
We searched, scanning series after series
And add our technology to the aged.
until we no longer needed its knowledge.
So the art of language is never lost
It is then that we understood everything.
Only changes, like the melting of frost.
This lonely library was a houseA house of hidden wisdom, protecting pages
From the frightening fires that raged wildly outside.
There we stood, peacefully pondering
Until we daringly decided something radical:
We would be the house for this lonely library.
Quietly, the four of us stepped silently
in front of those double doors
to stand guard guard.
75
76
John Hus s on g
Sonnet at 73 (a Gentle Parody)
Alexand er adri an
That time of year thou may’st in me behold
When hips do artificially conjunct
And old men creak and sway against the cold
Whose hopes and dreams are all, alas, defunct.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such days
When golden thoughts of youth die one by one,
And soft-lipped girls are just an amber haze,
Their love’s reprise in quiet dreams alone.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire
That once flamed full when passion came to play,
Now flutt’ring through the ashes of desire
With faint remembrance of another day.
Yet think not too harshly of this age’d fool
Lest you forget your own declining fuel.
JFH 1/30/2012
(Wherein the author, who thinks he’s 30, denies any identification with the
speaker.)
77
78
John Hus s on g
Sonnet at 73 (a Gentle Parody)
Alexand er adri an
That time of year thou may’st in me behold
When hips do artificially conjunct
And old men creak and sway against the cold
Whose hopes and dreams are all, alas, defunct.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such days
When golden thoughts of youth die one by one,
And soft-lipped girls are just an amber haze,
Their love’s reprise in quiet dreams alone.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire
That once flamed full when passion came to play,
Now flutt’ring through the ashes of desire
With faint remembrance of another day.
Yet think not too harshly of this age’d fool
Lest you forget your own declining fuel.
JFH 1/30/2012
(Wherein the author, who thinks he’s 30, denies any identification with the
speaker.)
77
78